Forbidden Love
by Whas'up
Summary: When a thief in the night follows a trail of blood and finds a woman asking for freedom, he'll risk all to give it to her, because some thieves have honor, and some King's lack any at all.
1. Chapter 1

**authors note, so some of you may know, this was a oneshot in a series of oneshots, well people wanna see the rest, so half of this is old and the rest is new, so read, or whatever, but enjoy! enjoy life!**

There's a handprint on the stone of the wall, bright red, fresh, the perfect marks of four fingers, a thumb, a palm, a small hand had left it there.

"What is it?" John hisses, turning slightly to look at Robin, Robin frozen and staring at the bloody handprint, the bag across John's back clinking; he's straining with the weight of the gold in that pack, frowning and looking at Robin with absolutely no patience.

Robin adjusts the straps of his own bag, he grimaces when the noise is more then he'd like, even with the guard at the end of the hall knocked unconscious by way of John's fist, grimaces because this job was a bad idea from start to finish. And now there's that bloody handprint on that stone wall, awful haunting red pulling Robin closer, squinting in the poor light the candles that line the hall give.

"There," Robin whispers back, soft voice and soft footfalls, the light and practiced footfalls of an accomplished thief, but the bag on his back clinks once more.

Little John looks at the blood, his frown deepening, "We have to go," John reminds Robin, and Robin nods, but looks down the hall, has his fingers ghosting along the stone, and there, not five paces away, is more blood, the streak of it on the stone has Robin knowing that whoever is bleeding, it's a woman, a small woman with small hands, had steadied themselves against the wall but kept moving, had kept their hand on the wall for three, perhaps four, steps before pushing themselves off.

"Robin," John whispers, standing still by the awful fresh bloody handprint, there's exasperation on the large man's face, anxiety in every line of his frame as he has watchful eyes in constant vigilance. King Leopold was rumored to be a kind King, though he let his poor starve like any other, but even a kind King would not take thieves in his home lightly. It's not death that would await Robin and John, but for certain they would lose their hands.

John quite likes his hands, thank you, and his voice calls out, a whispered yell that carries, "Robin!"

Robin's at a door, staring at the knob, the blood that coats the metal, fresh blood, a person is bleeding, a woman, a small woman, Robin gives one look to John, an apology in his look, because Robin can't let this go, can't leave this blood unfollowed.

John heaves a quiet sigh, he knows his friend, knew it was a fool's errand to try and dissuade Robin from investigating the moment he saw the blood, John joins Robin at the door.

The other side is a washroom, opulent, Robin shakes his head at the rubies that decorate the ornate mirrors, shakes his head at the gilded feet of the huge tub, but the red on the tub, red he mistook for rubies to match the mirrors; he walks closer because it is blood. It takes him four steps to be able to see over the lip of the porcelain tub, and for a moment Robin can only stare, mouth opening, she is beautiful.

John rushes past Robin, bends to check on the figure on her back inside the huge basin, and has to quickly straighten when a golden goblet with diamonds inlaid falls from the top of the overflowing pack on his back, it goes crashing into the tub, CLANG CLANK , as it hits the porcelain edge before landing on the bloody girl.

She lets out a noise at the strike, the goblet hitting her middle before rolling to the side off of her and landing finally with a CLUNK, and Robin thinks again, she is beautiful.

But her gown, white, soft white like the most carefree of clouds, it's soaked with blood at her bottom half, the material clinging to her thighs, smears are at her stomach, there's tiny pearls, rows of them, dangling from the high waist of the gown, but under them is blood, like she'd tried to wipe her hands clean there.

Robin joins John at the side of the tub, his pack off his back before he even knows what he's doing.

Her eyes are open, dark eyes that scream silently in pain, her body trembles, bloody hands lifting and futilely scrabbling at the steep walls of the porcelain prison she'd chosen to lay in, did she hope to wash the blood away? Robin thinks that must be so. Her bleary, uncomprehending eyes, those huge dark eyes in her lovely face, they finally turn to regard John and Robin, her gaze sweeps over them both as they look down at her, and as she studies them Robin kneels beside the tub, his hands clenched on the lip of it after he tries to touch her and she flinches back, cringing back from him, but still with that thoughtful expression on her face.

"M'lady," Robin whispers, because even now he doesn't need unwanted ears hearing him, not when he has a sack of gold beside him, "you're bleeding, what injury have you sustained?"

To get help though, would mean alerting the castle to the presence of two thieves, suddenly Robin understands John's hesitation in following the blood trail.

Sharpening eyes slowly turn down to the goblet that rests beside her, one hand attempting to grab it in the heavy way that speaks of incoordination and there's a head injury, Robin thinks, as she makes a grab for the goblet that is actually inches from her hand. She finally snags it, lifts it and holds it, John dances from foot to foot, grimacing, because punching a tall muscled guard in the face to avoid detection is one thing, but John couldn't stomach hitting a girl that's already looking quite injured, and is quite small, and is quite lovely, but the thought keeps running through his head, the thought that her mouth could open with a shrill cry of 'thieves!', and then it's goodbye hands.

She says exactly that, but it's as quiet as Robin's whisper had been, "Thieves?" she asks.

And John stills, wariness fighting over concern for the stranger they have found, a stranger obviously in need, and every single Merry man is a fool for someone in need, as Robin asks again, "Where are you injured?"

But she tips the golden goblet, her head sinking down to the porcelain, hair dark as anything Robin has ever seen, contrasting sharply against the gleaming white tub, curling about her shoulders and behind her head, it looks to be the softest cushion she could hope for.

"I've seen your faces," she says, eyes closing, her hand suddenly limp, it and the goblet within its grasp falling to the side, Robin snatches at her hand before the goblet can fall and make another echoing noise. The blood is beginning to tack on her skin, at his touch she jolts, eyes opening and cringing further away from them, glare on her face, ice in her dark eyes, "Your faces," the corner of her mouth tips up, incongruous and strange while matched with the glare.

John dances from foot to foot again, restless, head spinning to the door as Robin softly lands the goblet by his knees, "You're bleeding," Robin says, as if the girl isn't aware, her gown is ripped at the neck, a fair amount of her breasts _could_ be seen if either man were inclined to look, John looks enough to see discoloration and swelling at her neck and then promptly turns his eyes away, Robin looks longer, looks lower, fierce hot anger burning in his veins at the sight of her wounded neck, and then she shifts, the frayed edges of the gown revealing more skin and there's a vivid and deep bite at the top of her right breast, blood seeping from the injury.

Bile rises in Robin's throat.

"You'll have to kill me then," she finally concludes, an exhaled breath has her closing her eyes again. There's relief on her face, the urge to touch her, to comfort her, rushes over Robin and he stomps it down, twice he's tried to touch her, she's a stranger, and each time she'd flinched, politeness, honor even, demands that Robin look away from her nakedness, but his eyes burn and burn, staring at that bleeding bite upon her breast.

"We're going to _help_ you," Robin growls, angry, even more so when she breathes out a soft puff of laughter.

"Help me?" she says, in that tub of porcelain, in her ripped gown soaked with blood and clinging to her body, he'd asked her where she was injured, but the blood is at her thighs, her wrists are swelling, Robin can paint the picture for himself easily, it has him blinded with rage. "Then help me," she says, as if it's a joke they have shared, "and set me free," she whispers brokenly, tears escaping from the corners of her closed eyes, she's begging and asking, she's demanding.

"Freedom is what you wish for?" Robin asks, intense and he stands, his knees sore when he rises from them, he lands a hand against either side of the tub, hovering over her form, this stranger, this girl in the castle of the kind King, the stranger covered in blood, she doesn't answer, and he says it again, louder, John whines a warning to be quiet, because they have lingered too long, the pack of gold is heavy on John's back.

"I wanna be free," she says, as if she pictures in her delirious mind being as free as a bird with strong wings, then she's unconscious, limp as her head tilts to the side, her mouth parted softly.

Robin licks his lips, turns to John, and John already knows.

"The gold, Robin!" John says, gesturing at the pack Robin had discarded as soon as he came to her side, "You can't carry both!" then John's hand gestures at her, as if the gold and the girl are both just burdens, as if it is any choice at all.

Robin bends down, lifts her arms softly so they cross over her stomach, and then he gently, gently, an arm behind her shoulders and another under her knees, extracts her from the tub.

"You cannot intend to take her from this place?" John follows as Robin turns and strides towards the door, Robin never once looking back at the bag of gold left behind, the girl is actually lighter than the gold was, in physical weight at least.

"That is exactly what I intend," Robin counters, at his tone John immediately takes a breath, Robin's tone was all scolding, but then it's honest and distraught curiosity in his next words, "Do you truly ask me to choose gold over a life?"

John is shamed, color growing under his fierce beard, but that gold could feed many, that gold could do so much, and what will the girl do, John feels awful thinking it, "Look at the extravagance of her gown, Robin," John tries to make Robin see reason, "she's a noble," John hisses, as if it damns her, "obviously rich and highly valued."

Robin turns, one of her arms slips from over her stomach, it swings lazily in an arc as Robin turns to glare at John, "Oh yes, so highly valued, look at the string of sapphires at her neck, John," he speaks of the bruises quickly forming, and John turns his eyes away, unable to look at the purpling of her smooth skin, "and matching _bracelets_," Robin continues, her swollen red wrist hanging there, lifeless, fingers softly curling.

"She wears a wedding ring," John says as Robin is already turning.

That makes Robin stop, "Is it not wrong of any man, husband or no, to do this," the girl trembles in Robin's, trembles because Robin is shaking he is so angry, "to a woman?" he asks.

John rears back, offended, he has not hurt a woman in all his days.

"She asked for our help," Robin says, his decision made, and he is the leader, his voice is hard and immovable, he's already moving towards the door, "she wants freedom and she will receive it."

John casts one last look at the bag of gold being left behind, he is not strong enough to carry it and the one already on his back, but Robin is right, a life is worth more than gold, but leaving the riches that could feed a village behind still aches.

* * *

"What tom foolery!" a voice calls in the dark, the watcher for the camp, Robin doesn't stop, his arms aching, sweat down his back.

Robin shouts out the completion of passcode, "I wear no jewelry!" he yells, bad tempered and still filled with awful anger, the girls blood on him, "Go," he calls into the woods, "have Friar Tuck ready his herbs, I have a wounded woman."

A rustle, and it must be Simon who runs towards the camp, because the boy has no grace and Robin can hear every branch he slams against until the boy is too far ahead to track by ear.

The men are awake, Simon is panting at Friar Tuck's elbow, the fat man makes the sign of the cross over his chest when the fire illuminates the woman in Robin's arms, there's awful sorrow on the Friar's face as he urges Robin into the largest tent the camp has, Robin's own, actually.

Marian is there, a gentle hand on Robin's straining arm as he passes, but Marian sees the face of the girl, the woman, Robin corrects, in the bright light and warmth of the camp the woman looks to be about Robin's own age, no longer the broken child he'd seen in the dim and cold castle washroom, Marian gasps at the woman's face.

"Oh, god," Marian gasps, Robin can't carry the woman any longer, he calls a concerned query over his shoulder at his wife as he lowers his charge to the bedroll, with Marian beside him he suddenly feels the need to censure his thoughts, but it sits heavy in him, the woman looks beautiful spread out on his blankets.

"Robin, what have you done?" Marian asks, dread crawling up her voice, and when Robin turns his eyes from the woman, tears his eyes violently away because it's the only way to achieve it, Marian has her hands over her mouth, hunched shoulders. He knows his new wife well enough to know she is terrified, terribly so, "That's the Queen," Marian whispers, in shock and in fear.

King Leopold's wife was always said to be beautiful, Robin finds himself thinking, and when he turns to look at her, look at her as Friar Tuck checks her pulse and pulls an eyelid back to see her eyes, Robin can say for a certainty that all the tales are true.

Friar Tuck has his hands running over her head gently, fingers digging through her hair until he hisses through his teeth, he retracts his questing digits, blood on his fingertips, he has found the head wound Robin suspected. Tuck's eyes close with a shake of his head, he's praying softly, praying to the god he'd sworn to serve, the god he says is kind, it's after the prayer is done and the Friar's eyes open that Robin speaks.

"How will she fare?" Robin asks, concern swelling his throat, and he should not think of her beauty when she lies bleeding, should not let his eyes ravish her lovely face as she lies still, but Robin finds himself powerless, can't tear his eyes from her. Robin's eyes invariably return to the bite upon her breast, her torn gown exposing more than before, exposing soft skin, exposing her entire right breast and half of the other, the pert full breasts of a young woman, but Robin can only focus on the _bite_, she was _marked_, viciously marked, marked as deftly as a herder would mark a newly purchased cow, Robin's rage is a physical weight on him, inside him, _I will kill the King_, the thought burns like a draft of homemade brew down Robin's throat. Robin's hand has landed on the Queen, resting gently over a bicep, his fingers flexing in the white softness of her gown, _I will kill him._

"She will heal with time and with care, as all do," Friar Tuck answers him, throws him a look, the man is so often jolly, filled with mirth and song (and wine), singing of his god's love, but it's darkness on him now, solemn and sad, grief on his heavy features. Tuck follows Robin's gaze, the Friar leans forward and fixes the neckline of her gown as best he can, no judgment on his face as he does so, but he hides her breasts from Robin's eyes, hides the bleeding mark as well, the action wakes Robin from his burning stupor. Tuck gestures at the exit, "Go, Robin, I need hot water, clean rags," he says, already turning away, unaware of the affect his words have had on Robin.

Go? Robin doesn't think he can.

Marian's hand lands on Robin's shoulder, a comforting touch Robin didn't know he needed so badly until it was offered to him, Robin rises with her aid, his wife's hand sliding from his shoulder to around his back, "The Queen looks about the same size as Delilah," Marian says, her own eyes over her shoulder, her dark eyes looking over the Queen's prone form, "after the hot water and the rags are collected, please, find proper coverings?"

Robin nods, swallowing down his churning feelings, but Marian sees the turmoil, when she stands on tip toes to kiss him softly, he takes her comfort, draws strength from it, there's an itching in his stomach though, as he kisses his wife in the same tent as the bleeding Queen. Marian smiles softly, with sad eyes, as she returns to the Friar's side, ready with whatever help is needed.

"Help me with this, my child," Friar Tuck asks Marian as Robin turns from the sight, the pair with their hands untying the Queen's soft white gown, the blood soaked gown.

As Robin exits the canvas structure it's to the sight of Little John already placing pots of water over the fire, he snags Simon and asks the boy to find Delilah, tells the boy to ask her what clothes she has to spare. And then that's all he can do, the rags are being fetched, the water slow to heat over the blazing fire, uselessness descends on him, he could sit, but can't, fears the uselessness would become even more pronounced if he sat, so he paces, around his tent, and around the fire, a figure eight.

The water is hot, inside the tent it goes.

Clean rags are harder to come by, but they are found, they disappear into the tent.

Robin keeps on his figure eight, his brow deeply knitted, his thoughts wild, but one is recycled time and again, _I will kill the King_, the bite upon her flashes in his eyes, it's an avalanche of images, of thoughts, the rubies on the mirrors of the washroom, the blood on the tub he mistook for rubies also. Robin stays at the edges of the fires light, sheltering himself in the anonymity of the darkness, but his men know his foot falls; they leave him to his pacing. _I will kill the King_, he thinks, thinks of the weight of the Queen in his arms, at first easy to hold, every step finding her more and more heavy, his arms not strong enough, _I will kill the kind King, _on and on until Marian exits the tent.

The horror that was there before, at the sight of the Queen in Robin's arms, unconscious and bruised, that horror in Marian's eyes has grown tenfold. "Someone fetch Caline! Have her bring her kit!" Marian calls, Dunstan shoots from his seat and heeds her as soon as she's done speaking, Marian is drawing in shaky breaths, and it is shaky steps she takes to go to Robin as he steps into her sight, steps out of the darkness.

"Why do you need Caline?" Robin asks as he raises his hands to rub along her shaking arms, tilting his head down to look at her.

That horror on her pretty face has Robin's heart beat hitching, "The Queen is torn apart," Marian says, those words, the image they create in his mind, it has Robin's rage growing, growing so much he will drown in the flood, Robin's hands have stilled on Marian's arms, she does not notice, nor does he. "There's so much blood, it won't stop," Marian whispers, her voice breathy, as if she's about to faint, she shakes her head slowly, numbly, just a while ago she was Robin's strength, his comfort, but that was before the skirt of the gown soaked with blood was lifted. "She'll need to be sewn together, but Tuck's hands are unsteady, and I'm useless with a needle," Marian says, her hands grab at Robin's chest, clenching the fabric she finds.

"It's not right to think of myself in this moment," Marian gasps, licking her lips, looking up at Robin desperately, looking at him _thankfully_, "But Robin, if you had not given me the courage to escape the Sheriff, to escape the arrangement, I fear this fate would have been my own."

Robin pulls her into his arms, eyes shutting, holding her tightly, she is right; this is the fate of an unhappy wife with a powerful husband, this is the fate that would have awaited her if she had not run. Marian had run and saved herself from this horror, Robin wishes in that moment, with every fiber of his self, that time could be rewritten, that the Queen could escape the horror too.

Marian returns to the tent as Caline arrives, bleary eyed, quickly waking as the job before her is detailed out, the old woman swallows, her thin lips quivering, she enters the tent holding her needle and thread like a Knight with blade and shield.

Marian does not leave the tent again, nor Tuck, Caline leaves hours after entering, red rimmed eyes still leaking tears, the old woman wears the same numbness that was on Marian.

The dawn is stretching across the horizon when Tuck exits, Robin has not slept at all, is the only one now near the fire, poking at it through the cold hours to keep it alive. John had sat by Robin's side until he nearly fell over backwards on the log he sat upon; nearly fell for how tired he was, Robin had sent him away with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

But before the huge man left Robin had asked him quietly, "Do you know the Queen's name?" Robin had asked him.

Robin remembers the celebrations in the kingdom years ago when the King took his new wife, but that's all he remembers, he does not remember her name, or which Lord's house she belonged too before marrying into the royal family. He remembers though, one celebration at a tavern in a thriving town (that found itself short a fair amount of treasure that night), Robin remembers ducking a guard and finding himself in the dirty tavern, drinking a drink to stave off suspicion, Robin remembers the barmaid frowning, shaking her head as she poured him his ale, "Nobles marry them off so young!" the woman had said.

John shook his head, a hand before his mouth as he stretched out a huge yawn before heading off to his bed.

Robin waited alone after that.

The sky is pink as Tuck leaves the tent, he's is wiping his hands, the wide sleeves of his brown roughspun robe are rolled up past his elbows, he's wiping blood from his hands, trying to wipe blood off ineffectually with a blood stained rag.

Robin does not get the chance to speak, Friar Tuck sits heavily by his side, "She yet lives, by god's grace, she lives," the Friar tells him.

"Was it god's grace that put such horror on her too?" Robin bites, wishing he hadn't as soon as it's out, "Forgive me," Robin sighs, rubbing at his eyes, his rage has pulled back, it lurks in him though, pulled back but waiting, like a feral dog contained by but a flimsy rope.

Tuck looks at the fire with tired eyes, he has nothing to say, as dawn stretches the camp starts back to life, voices of those awakening, the sizzling of bacon from another fire.

"Do you know the Queen's name?" Robin asks.

"Regina," Tuck answers.

Regina, Robin thinks, rolling the syllables in his mind, the name is as lovely as its bearer.

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	2. Chapter 2

"Rest, my child," the Friar had said before he left the tent that stank of copper, of blood, he'd motioned towards a blanket with his blood soaked hand, and Marian had not spared the Queen nor the Friar another glance, falling upon the blanket and falling asleep immediately.

It can't have been more than an hour before Marian is tossing and turning.

Marian can hear the chirping of birds outside, it's what has her stirring, an hour or so of sleep, maybe not even that, she lets out a long sigh of air, on her back on the blanket, a hand coming up to rub at her face.

"Where am I?" the voice is low, it's raspy.

Marian is on the cusp of falling back into sleep as the question is put forth, sleep is trying to welcome her with open arms but the only other in the tent is the Queen, that voice is the Queen's. Marian blinks her eyes open to the sight of the other woman only an arm's length away, attempting to sit up from her own nest of bedding, the Queen grimaces, let's out a small gasp, Friar Tuck said she'd not awaken for a day or more, her wounds grievous, her loss of blood staggering, yet here she is pulling herself up, the Queen had lost enough blood to turn her lips blue, the Friar had thought she might die twice in the night, he'd said she would not rise for a day or more, yet she pulls herself up, "No, no," Marian says, hands outstretched, sitting up herself, "you'll pull the stitches, Majesty."

The Queen stills, propped up on one arm, almost upright, shaky and breathing deeply, her large eyes are studying her surroundings, there's a keenness to her gaze that surprises Marian, intelligence sparks in those eyes, something darker too, for just a second, something dark and terrible in such a sweet young face, "Where am I?" the Queen repeats, and the darkness is gone, slipped from her features as if never there, there's fear in the Queen's voice, under the bark, under the regality that's bred and beaten into the girls of Noble Houses, Marian had belonged to a Noble House and can hear under the pretense with ease.

"A camp on the edge of Sherwood Forest, Majesty," Marian answers, sees no reason not to, the Queen is not a prisoner, and can certainly not run, the Queen has no reason to fear, Marian will assure her, "my husband brought you here in the night, and we treated your injuries as best as we were able."

The Queen's hair is inky darkness, a cloud of curls framing her face, the face that is even still drained of color, the lips are no longer blue, but they are pale, and they are quivering, but still Marian can see what a prize this woman is, the second wives were always the pretty ones, Marian's father had remarried after the death of Marian's mother, a dark haired beauty much like the Queen, young too, just like the Queen.

With the blood washed away the Queen before her seeps regal bearing even in her borrowed nightshirt, Marian can't match _this_ woman before her now with the one that lay before her hours ago. Bleeding and torn, heavy and lifeless, waking only once in the long hours of the night, waking as Caline was attempting to stitch her, those dark eyes had blinked open, her head had tipped up and it was blankness on the Queen's face as she observed the old woman between her open thighs and bent knees, the Queen's head had thumped back down softly, she had stared up at the tent ceiling for close to ten minutes before Tuck realized she was conscious and attempted to give her something for the pain she must have been in. The Queen had shaken her head away, like a babe refusing the breast, had not said a word, had shook her head so forcefully away from the offered milk of the poppy that Caline had to pause in her work, landing a hand on one of the Queen's bent knees, that touch had the Queen's eyes growing, blankness gone, sudden delirious panic in every feature, she'd tried to scuttle away, soundlessly, the entire thing happened in silence, in the end the Friar had forced the draught down her throat, asking forgiveness the entire time.

"Thank you," the Queen says, a measure of gratitude there, but the fear is still there, and something else that is strange, petulance, there in the tenseness of her mouth, in the line of her shoulders, it frightens Marian more then she can even comprehend, it frightens her that perhaps the Queen did not want her life to be saved. "I required stitches?" the Queen asks, and the Queen is so _young_, Marian thinks, smooth skin, smooth as if carved from stone, there are no laugh lines at her mouth, but her brow is furrowed as she shifts her weight, another grimace escaping.

She looks no older then Marian.

"Careful," Marian sooths, shuffling up onto her knees and moving closer to the Queen, the Queen looks at her, startled, not unlike when an animal is caught in a trap, caught in a trap and ready to attack any hand that reaches for it, Marian stops herself from getting any closer, "Is there much pain? I can fetch you something for it?"

Just as when she was offered poppy milk hours before the Queen shakes her head, a more controlled motion then the flailing of last night, but underneath is the same panic. "No," she says, "I'm perfectly fine," she adds on.

Marian can't imagine that is true. Can't possibly imagine that is the truth at all.

"Water then," Marian decides, "I'll fetch you water to drink?"

The Queen's brow doesn't relax, her body is still tense, looking uncomfortable and wary, she licks her lips, her colorless lips, she sways softly before catching herself and straightening, "How did I come here?"

A soft smile grows on Marian's face as she answers, thinking of Robin, "My husband carried you."

"Your husband?" the Queen's head tilts, confusion on her face, "Is he a," she shrugs, "a servant? Does he serve the King? Does he know the danger he's placed himself in?

Marian titters out a chuckle, shaking her head, "No, Majesty, no, he serves under no King," Robin swears no fealty but to the silly lion on his arm, but that's not something to share with the Queen that seems intensely more perturbed at the sound of Marians laughter, as if it is a foreign sound to her, "His name is Robin of Locksley, Majesty, he was within the King's stronghold to-"

The flap to the tent is thrown open, the Queen flinches back from the soft dawn light slanting in, but it's only Robin, trying to maneuver in with two plates of food in his hands, "Majesty," Marian is quick to try and reassure, hand flung out, fingers splayed towards the Queen that doesn't cower, no, her spine is far too straight for that, she's far too regal to do that, but the fear in her (Marian can see it so clearly) has increased substantially at the presence of another, the presence of a man, "this is he, my husband," the Queen nods slowly, those huge eyes, they are lovely brown in the new light.

Robin smiles at Marian, a warm smile that brightens his whole face, but his gaze turns to the Queen, his head swiveling, his smile dims, "Forgive me, we heard the sound of your voices and I'd thought you'd both be starved."

Marian smiles as Robin crouches on the balls of his feet, one plate delivered into her waiting hands, "Thank you, Robin," but he isn't looking at her, isn't quite looking at the Queen either anymore, as if afraid the woman will bolt off if he focuses too much of his gaze upon her. That assessment doesn't look far from the truth, the Queen's mouth snapped shut the moment Robin walked in, her breaths equal and even to the point that she must be consciously controlling the intake and outtake.

"You carried me here?" the Queen asks as Robin places her plate atop the blankets she's pushed off her lap, places the offerings of toast and ham before her, stretching his arm absurdly to keep the bulk of his body out of the Queen's space.

"Aye, Milady," Robin says, that easy smile that Marian fell so fast for flashes into being once more, his dimples deep, but his eyes strained.

"For what purpose?" the Queen questions, making no move towards the food given to her, the Queen's hands have fisted in her lap, her fingers twisting at the cotton of the nightshirt, Marian turns her sight away from those wringing hands and the mangled wrists they're attached to.

Robin's smile dims at the question, his heavy brow constricting, Marian lays a hand on his arm to comfort him and he absentmindedly pats at it, "What purpose?" Robin echoes, "You were in need of aid, Milady, and asked for my help."

The Queen frowns, her nose scrunches up as if trying and failing to recall, the gesture is, well, it's childish and endearing, Marian spies a bit of the woman underneath the Queenly exterior, Marian finds herself smiling for a just a second, "Did I?" the Queen asks faintly as Marian chews on a piece of toast.

Robin has moved back to sit next to Marian, his hand still over hers on his arm, but his focus is entirely on the dark haired woman that still makes no move towards the food, doesn't even look at it. "Yes, Milady," Robin answers, his jaw working, his eyes narrowing, the face he wears is the same as when he's working hard on his aim, or when he's working the tumblers of an unwilling lock, "you cannot remember?"

"No," the answer is soft, the Queen turns her head, eyes not seeing, she shakes her head, "I should not have appealed to you, I apologize," the Queen says, the words stilted, and her voice is suddenly hollow, as empty of life and as jarring as the screech wind makes when it runs through bare branches.

Robin splutters, his hand leaves Marian, hovers in the air as if he wishes to touch the Queen, but he's not a fool, not her Robin, and his hand does not go any further towards the woman that is still shaking her head, "Milady-"

"It's Your Majesty," the Queen corrects, still with that hollow voice. Hollow and empty, the sound of it has Marian shaking as if caught in a frost with no covering. That's the empty voice so common at Court, empty voices for empty women, empty voices for the slowly dying, Marian shakes thinking she could have been among their number, she slides her hand down Robin's arm, grabs a hold of his fingers, his warm hands.

"Your Majesty then," Robin says, "do not claim to me that you did not require assistance, the blood-"

"I should not have appealed to you because in doing so I have placed you in danger," the Queen clarifies, finally turning her head back, she tucks a portion of her hair back, back behind her ear as she takes both Marian and Robin in one fell swoop of a glance, "King Leopold will-"

The change in Robin is enough for Marian's breath to catch in her throat, for her to drop the bite of food she'd had on her way to her mouth, she's never seen such a look in his eye, never before seen rage contort his face like this, she lets go of his hand, "That monster will never touch you again."

A smirk tips the Queen's mouth, an awful thing, she scoffs, "The King's reach is long, Robin of Locksley, you are only an hours gallop from his gates. You promise me things that are impossible."

"We'll pack camp, move deeper into Sherwood," Robin answers, Marian wears no visible reaction to this news, but it's a shock, less than a week they have been here, they were planning on remaining for at least a month more.

"You don't understand," the Queen says, her face twisting up, the blankness leaving, irritation in its place, she's quivering though, Marian remembers Friar Tuck's words, the Queen should not even be awake, "the King will think I ran awa-"

"_You_ don't understand," Robin's voice cracks like a whip through the air, loud and hot, the Queen shrinks back barely at all, but for both Robin and Marian, both watching so intently, the action is seen easily.

"Robin," Marian says, a warning and a caress in one, her hand back on his arm, squeezing on his arm, but Robin is already calming, he takes a breath. Marian turns to the Queen, the lovely young Queen that looks ready to faint, the Queen shouldn't be awake, and Marian doesn't know what reserve of strength the Queen has used to prop herself up like this, but she can see it is quickly fading, "Do you wish to return to the King?" Marian asks quietly, because she knows as well as any that love can trap a person as well as any cage, and perhaps this bloodied young Queen wishes to return, maybe she loves her husband in spite of the monster he obviously is.

The Queen shakes her head, an immediate reaction that seems out of her control; Marian thinks so, so softly, that it would have been easier for them all if she had wanted to return to the castle. The Queen opens her mouth to speak, but Robin speaks first.

"Mistake or no, you asked for my help," Robin's voice is still hot, his anger roiling under his skin, Marian can't understand it, not completely, "you asked for freedom," Robin says, desperation laced in his words.

"Freedom?" the Queen echoes, her head goes sideways, suddenly loose on her neck, her eyes close slowly, Robin beside Marian goes tense all over, a tight fist growing on his lap, as if it's the only way to stop himself from reaching out, the Queen's body tilts to the side before she blinks her eyes open again, there's sweat beading on her forehead now, and that awful smirk grows, "My memories escape me, but I'm certain this is not the freedom I meant."

Robin is tightly coiled beside Marian, "It's the only freedom I have to give you," Robin says quietly, and Marian can't help but think that it is more then he needed to give, but she slams that thought down, the Merry Men do not leave a soul in need.

"You will lose your _own_ freedom if my husband finds me here," the Queen sways, a sharp breath torn from her as she leans all her weight to the side on one shaking arm. She swallows, her eyes close, then her whole body is loose and heavy, her front headed fast to the ground.

"Majesty!" Marian says, moves forward, her hand leaving Robin, but Robin is quicker, his hands on the Queen's arm as Marian is still putting her plate down.

Marian fears another episode like hours ago, when Caline had rested her hand on the Queen's knee, but the Queen is already sinking fast into unconsciousness, blinking and breathing fast, she sinks against Robin when Robin pulls her to his chest, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, "Your Majesty?" Robin asks, his eyes are wide in fear.

A whine comes from the woman, not quite a word, and then her eyes are closed. She's unconscious.

"Put her down," Marian says, hand rubbing at Robin's back, moving up to his shoulder when he doesn't move, "gently, Robin, put her down."

After another moment Robin does so, cradling the Queen's unresponsive form until the last possible moment.

Marian moves the untouched plate of food offered to the Queen off the blanket, she holds it with both hands and watches Robin as he watches the Queen, the Queen on her back, her hair spread behind her head, her mouth slightly open. "Did you ever meet her?" Robin asks, finally turning away, looking to Marian with tortured eyes.

"My father and I were at the wedding," Marian smiles, remembering years ago, she'd gotten a new dress for the occasion, her father had chosen to take her instead of his wife, remembering it now it seems so trivial, but at the time Marian got so much satisfaction over it. "We were on the balcony; my father's station was high enough for an invitation, not high enough for a good seat."

Marian's lips twitch up, lost in memory, she has not seen her father since running from the marriage he tried to force on her, her father always told her how much he adored her, his only girl, his little darling, he'd tried to marry her away, he promised the match would be good for her. The smile fades.

Robin has his hand pushing hair off the Queen's forehead, the touch is more intimate then is appropriate, but Marian knows well that Robin is a caring man, a kinder man then she has ever known, far kinder then Marian's father, and nobles have a different view of what is appropriate and what is not, that lesson has been hard for Marian to remember. His hand leaves the Queen quickly though, he turns to Marian grabs one of her hands off the plate, his thumb runs over her knuckles, "Let's eat by the fire," Robin says, shaking his head as if to clear it, pulling Marian softly along as they exit the tent.

Marian turns him, pulls her hand from his and cups his face, stares into his eyes, "You did a good thing," Marian tells him, because he looks tortured, conflicted, he lets out a breath, looks down, "Robin," but he doesn't look back up, he smiles, as awful as the smirk the Queen wore, he pulls Marian into a tight hug.

* * *

The camp is packing by lunch, Marian tries her best to be helpful, but finds herself more in the way than anything else. She still feels uncomfortable, the men and their families are kind, and they are patient, but Marian still feels a burden when she can't start a fire, when she doesn't know how to pitch a tent, or how to pack one.

She is learning, she's doing her best, and every day it is easier.

"Robin!" Dunstan cries, he's out of breath, he throws a huge sack to the ground, he's just returning from a last minute excursion into the closest town to gather what they won't be able to scavenge in Sherwood.

At the sight of the poster in his hands, the poster he unfurls and upon it is the Queen's face, an unsmiling portrait that doesn't do justice at all to the woman that still lies unconscious on a mess of blankets, no longer in a tent, they have all been packed away, but out in the open, unknowing of the glances thrown to her, the murmurs that catch behind cupped hands, at the sight of the poster Marian lets out a gasp. She's walking towards Robin before she even decides to do so, his jaw is locked, staring at the poster.

"This is ill tidings," John says as he comes to stand next to Robin, as he takes the poster from Dunstan, upon the poster, in bold, REWARD, with a number that makes even Marian's eyes widen.

"What does it say?" Simon asks, he's looking from between John and Robin, he's looking right at the poster, and it takes Marian a moment to realize the boy can't read. Simon can't read, but Marian can, and her eyes scan the poster hungrily, it reads as a heartfelt bid for a man's wife be returned to him unharmed, a reward for any knowledge of her whereabouts, but Marian knows it all for falsehood, with her own eyes she saw how the King _loves_ his Queen.

"Nothing," Robin tears the parchment from John's hands, he crumples it and throws it in the last fire, stomping over to it, stepping over the Queen's blanket clad legs to throw it angrily into the flames, he watches as it burns, waits for it to be completely ash before he turns to John, "We move within the hour," he says.

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	3. Chapter 3

Regina sits, shivering with a blanket wrapped around her, mist coiling between the giant trees the camp sits amongst, the tents small and inconsequential between the hundred year old giants. She lets out a heavy breath as a weight is thrown around her shoulders, another blanket, "Thank you, Marian," Regina says, smiling at Marian as Marian sits beside her, the woman smiles back but it's a small thing.

"Winter is around the bend," Marian says, her voice quiet, barely heard over the crackling of the fire that is so close, "the cold will only grow worse."

Regina nods, "I'm aware of how the seasons work," Regina says, and immediately regrets it, "I'm sorry," she shakes her head, "I'm sorry, I did not sleep well," nightmares plague her, seldom are they of Leopold though (seldom though they are, they are the most traumatic, the ones that leave her sobbing and shaking, rushing to the creek and trying to clean herself of him), most common of the terrors are her mother, with Daniel, years gone and still the agony is fresh to Regina. She wakes in the strange tent that is now her home for as long as she wants it, wakes shivering and alone, unsure if she'd been screaming, but she would rather be in that cold tent, laying on the hard ground, then ever rest upon a feather bed again.

Marian doesn't say anything for a moment, she's busying herself with gathering bowls and utensils, "Most of the children need new winter things, I'll make sure you get some appropriate attire as well when there's a trek to town," she says finally, she ladles thick broth into each of the two bowls she'd gathered, one has more than the other, and that is the one that she passes to Regina.

Regina takes the bowl in hands that tremble, though Marian ignores it, "I have no way to repay you and yours for all your kindness," Regina says, looking down to the food given to her, and back to Marian, behind Marian at the worn tents people are beginning to emerge from steadily, stretching and preparing for their days.

No longer Queen, no longer Royal, nor Noble, Regina does not know anything about this world she's found herself in, knows only that she'd rather die than go back to where she'd been before. She would rather die than ever be under Leopold again, die before she let Snow play with her hair and decide what dress she's to wear, die rather than have Rumple giggle at her sorrow and pain, and utter and complete ineffectuality.

"No payment is necessary," Marian smiles, she has a remarkable smile, "the Merry Men help any in nee-"

"What have we for breakfast?" the giant man they call Little John interrupts, rubbing at his eyes as he plops himself down on Marian's other side.

Marian laughs, "The same as yesterday," she chirps, leaning towards the man that swats at her in jest, "and the day before that, and the day before that," Marian pushes the bowl she'd readied for herself into the large man's hands before patting his shoulder and getting herself a new portion.

Regina shivers in her layers, slowly putting mouthful after mouthful into her mouth, chewing the mealy bits and swallowing, the food had upset her stomach at first, greasy and too rich, Marian and Caline pleading with her to try and eat more, and when she'd shaken her head it was Robin that had whispered to her, his hand curled between them as if he wanted to touch her, 'it is to heavy is it not? ' he had asked, 'try to eat what you can, to build your strength,' he'd said with his weighty gaze on her, begging her. The food had become easier to take after time, Regina is spooning broth into her mouth, her eyes pointed towards Marian and John, but her mind is elsewhere, caught in numbness, as if the cold seeps into her mind as well as her joints, seeps into her thoughts and leave her frozen, frozen and unfeeling.

She is still so tired, Regina can't sleep after her nightmares wake her, Little John is looking at her, tilting his head to catch her gaze, she focuses on him, "How are you, M'lady?" he asks, and she smiles for him, smiling like the pretty bird she'd been for so many years, it's a skill she's glad of now as he takes her smile for an answer and turns away satisfied.

Her smile had never ever dimmed while in the castle walls, inside her prison, the pretty bird locked in her gilded cage, but as soon as John turns away it wilts from her face, melting off and leaving her face blank.

Simon comes and sits next to her, the boy isn't older then sixteen and if he were older perhaps she wouldn't appreciate him so close, but he is only a child, lanky with a voice that squeaks, Simon reminds Regina of Snow, dark hair and inquisitive eyes, but Simon has never hurt Regina, nor owned her as Snow had. The boy gets the most genuine smiles from her, though she's aware of how far apart they are spaced, rare and fleeting, she should feel happy, happy with her freedom, but all she feels is cold.

When Robin sits, passing Marian and kissing her cheek with a grin before he grabs his own meal, when he sits his gaze is heavy on Regina, she can feel him looking at her, her shivering grows worse under his scrutiny. The man who'd carried her (Robin, who has blue eyes and a stumbled chin, who'd carried Regina to freedom, her eyes can find him so, so easily, and when she looks for him, his eyes are always already on her), he does not fall so easily as John for her smiles, as if he can look right into her at all her pain, all of her tormented insides, and still he throws a dimpled grin at her when their eyes meet. Marian's husband reminds Regina of Daniel in the worst and most painful ways.

Breakfast is nearly done, Simon has been telling Regina of how adept he is with his bow, the boy is trying to impress her, he's puffing out his chest and looking quite pleased at the attention she's giving him, the boy has a very obvious crush on her, she looks at Simon and sees a child, and he doesn't even understand how easily she could drown him.

The boy jumps a foot as the dagger lands with a thunk next to Regina's right foot, a hairs breath from her toes. Regina does not flinch, but Marian next to her does.

The man has green eyes, the man who'd thrown down the dagger, green eyes and an unsmiling mouth, stern gaze watching as the blade dug itself deep into the soil.

"Matteo!" Marian says, half her broth sloshing onto her hands, "What are you doing?!"

"Pick it up," Matteo says, gesturing at the knife, those hard eyes staring down at Regina, but there is no malice there, Regina does not feel threatened, Regina looks at him, studies him, holding her half empty bowl of steaming broth with both hands, it's heavy and greasy, but it tastes like freedom as it slides down her throat, the song of birds high up in the thick foliage, that is the song of freedom, the chilly air that has her shiver no matter how many layers she's given, that is freedom too.

"Why?" Regina asks, placing her bowl down, but she's hesitant to grasp the hilt of the knife, the people of this camp have been kind, the kind of kind that comes from pity, for three weeks they have been kind, patient and kind, with their eyes filled with pity, but there is no pity in Matteo, he urges her again to grasp the knife.

"So I can teach you to wield it," Matteo answers, his unsmiling mouth still in that hard line, even as Robin shoots from his seat across the fire, hand landing on Matteo's back.

"She's ill," Robin starts to say, and Regina has talked to Robin only a handful of times, each time leaving her unsettled (spoken to him so few times, but their eyes meet with startling frequency, dark eyes meeting blue, she is always the first to look away), spoken only a handful of times since she'd awoken deep in Sherwood with no recollection of the six days it took to travel so far south.

"She is not _ill_," Matteo growls, "she is wounded," he says as Regina wraps her hand around the hilt of the knife, it's a beauty, she can tell as she pulls it from the black soil, though she has no knowledge of blades. Matteo shrugs Robin's hand off his shoulder, "and with that knife in her hand she will never be so again."

The hilt of the knife is a deep red wood, smooth, Regina holds it in her hand, completely captivated by more then it's beauty, magic thrums through the thing, from the tip of the gleaming blade, down the swooping sharp edge to the hilt, through the wood and burning out from the golden inlaid designs that decorate the red wood, the knife is magic, it's also the perfect size for her hand.

"Ill or wounded, she is still in need of recuperation," Friar Tuck's voice comes from somewhere, but Regina is still studying the knife, the fat Friar that used his herbs and his healers knowledge to save her life, her life, and what a life it was, bitterness churns her stomach, the greasy broth she'd drunk in danger of reappearing.

"No," Regina says, still looking at the knife, until her eyes turn up to the unsmiling man with white in his bronze hair, with wrinkles around his eyes, "I would learn," she says.

"Your Majesty," Marian says, her thin fingers wrapping just above Regina's elbow, Marian is kindest of all, kind and gentle, the bearings of the court apparent in every little thing she does, Regina has not asked how she came to be here, here in this camp of what are clearly outlaws, did Robin save her too? Save her from some high tower and marry her despite her noble breeding? A noble girl with a common husband, as Regina and Daniel were meant to be.

Regina pats Marian hand, and then works the other woman's fingers free, "I'll be well," Regina says to Marian, but the other woman does not look convinced, sharing a glance with her husband Regina stands, gripping the knife tightly as she rises from her seat, her feet secure, her dizziness manageable.

* * *

"You have a talent for it," Matteo told her, though the first entire lesson was on the proper way to hold the knife.

"You think so?" Regina asked.

Things seem empty, long and drawn out and hollow, especially her words, her dizziness came back halfway through the lesson, and when she'd dropped like a sack of flour to the ground Matteo had done nothing but watch, told her to get up. And she had.

She'd tried to give him back the knife after the first lesson, and he would not take it, holding up his hands, "It chooses to whom it belongs," the first hint of a smile worked around his eyes, "it's yours."

Nobles blame witches when their banks shrivel, farmers blame witches when their crops won't grow, but the knife is so obviously magical, "It's a very special blade," Regina said, digging and hoping for an answer from Matteo, an answer without having to ask a single question.

He looked at her, green eyes bright in the sun, "You _are_ witch," he said, as if he was stating fact.

And he is, Regina's mouth opened though, "No, no, I-"

"Our fires burn brighter since we took you in," Matteo said, still in that even tone, "predators give our camp more distance. You are a witch."

Regina had wished for their fires to be warmer, had wished the wolves and their howling farther away, and had made her wishes into reality with but a few chanted lines of ancient tongue, a raising of her arms one night at the edge of the creek after trying and trying and ultimately failing to scrub Leopold's phantom touch from her.

Matteo reached forward, a hand over hers around the knife, the other at the crook of her elbow, he had bent her arm until she was cradling the knife at her breast, "My mother was a witch," he told her, "and she was burned for it."

"Would Robin," Regina shook her head, "would these people do the same to me?" she asked, and she couldn't quite get herself to care, would she fight them if they came for her in the night to burn her? The answer is yes, because she is a fighter down to her bones, clawing and vicious, but what if it was no? What would await her after death, would Daniel be waiting for her?

"No," Matteo answered, "Robin would never let such a thing happen to you," and he stressed the word you, as if he meant especially her, and Regina thought of Robin's eyes meeting hers more times than seems coincidence, thought of how she could feel Robin's gaze on her in a way that she had never felt before.

* * *

It's Robin who does the next supply run, he and his companions return laden with bundles, with new cloaks and trousers for every child, there are fourteen of them, new cloaks for Caline and the old woman Tanja that spends her days mumbling to herself and asking for the son she lost twelve years ago, and lastly Robin lands a parcel before Regina.

He's grinning and biting his lips as she goes to her knees and undoes the twine, Regina had been wearing borrowed dresses the entire time she has been among the camp, ill fitted and worn, but as she undoes the twine and pulls back the brown covering she sees that Robin has brought her enough to never have to borrow another dress. "Oh, thank you," Regina breathes, she pulls the cloak from the parcel, it is thick and warm, she throws it about her shoulders immediately, "Robin, thank you so much," but her fingers are too cold to latch the fastener.

He chuckles, shoos her hands away, standing close as he fastens the cloak, his breath is hot against her face, each breath softly fluttering the hair that's loosened from her braid, "We could not have our Queen freezing come the frost, could we?"

Standing so close to her, their eyes meet, "Our Queen?" Regina echoes, the cloak is fastened, but his hands stay there, his fingers moving slightly against her neck, "Am I Queen of Sherwood now?"

He laughs, his hands leave her, "No, M'lady," he answers, "the Queen of Sherwood would wear a crown of flowers upon her brow," he smiles at her as if she is not a broken thing, smiling so hard the corners of his eyes crinkle, "yet no crown rests upon you."

His smile has the cold receding, the cold that goes deeper then the chill in the air, the cold that invaded her thoughts and her mind, the cold that leeched her will and her fight from her, the sight of his smile has the cold retreating. She returns his smile.

It's then that she sees it, sticking from the back of Little John's rucksack, part of a word visible to her –REWA- she sees, and her smile slips free as she passes Robin and tears the parchment from John's bag, unmindful of the large man's bark of displeasure.

She unfurls the thing, angles it to her body, and there is her face inked onto the page.

A hand lands on her shoulder, she knows it's Robin, she does not shy away, "I would have showed you after supper," Robin tells her, his hand on her shoulder is gripping softly, besides his fingers grazing her neck moments ago, his hand on her shoulder is the first touch he has landed on her that she can recall.

His hand is warm, the grip comforting as her eyes skim over the words, "Abducted," she reads aloud, and Robin's hands twitch, "I thought the King would think I ran away," Regina muses, twice she'd tried to run away in the first year of their marriage, each attempt foiled and punished. But he never forgot.

"M'lady," Robin starts.

Regina turns, his hand dislodged from her, she licks her lips, looks up into his eyes, Matteo had said Robin would not let anyone burn her, Robin had picked her up and saved her, Robin would not sell her back to her husband, he wouldn't, he would not do that to her, Regina doesn't know where this unfailing belief springs from, but it is there all the same. She holds the poster out to him, their gaze still locked as he slips it free from her fingers and rips it clear in half.

* * *

Friar Tuck says it will be sometime before she is well again, well _again_, but she has not been well since the day Daniel died on the hay covered floor of the stables, the day her mother had crushed his heart in her hand. There is no way back there.

"Pass me that, my darling," Caline asks Regina, and smiles when Regina does as asked.

Matteo teaches Regina to wield a blade in the early light of dawn, everyday leaving muscles she'd never before used burning, and the wounds her husband gave her aching and stinging nearly a month after he'd held her down and forced himself on her, her stitches are long removed, but it hurts all the same, but Caline has seemed to make it her mission to teach Regina how to cook, the old woman that had sewn her mutilated form back together the night Leopold lost his vaunted patience, lost his unheard of temper, the old woman has Marian at one elbow, and Regina at the other.

Marian is watching as Caline carefully and gently instructs Regina on gutting and cleaning fish, a task that Marian's nose had scrunched at, she'd laughed and said Regina should go first.

Caline is speaking, Regina is responding, and it's something Regina doesn't even recall that has Marian tilting her head, expression on her face that is confused and strange, pinched, "What's wrong, girl?" Caline says, shoving the knife into Marian's hands once Regina's fish is done.

Marian shakes her head, nose scrunching once more and looking down at her fish, "Nothing," she says, and she smiles at Regina, "you just reminded me of Robin for moment," then it is Marian groaning in disgust the entire time her hands are on the fish.

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	4. Chapter 4

Robin starts awake, warm with Marian's arm slung over him, with one of her legs tangled with his, under mounds and mounds of blankets. The fingers of his right hand are burning with cold, as are his feet, his toes are already numb, it's what awakened him, he's bleary eyed and still half asleep, he raises his hand from his side, looks in the near darkness and finds nothing the matter with it, but it burns, freezing so cold he fears he could lose his fingers.

Marian is a heavy sleeper, when Robin extradites himself from her embrace she does nothing but bury her head deeper into her pillow.

Robin is shaking now, but he knows he is warm, he's wearing layers, he's still warm from Marian's body heat, but he's shaking as if caught in the cold, caught in the cold and freezing, freezing with his teeth chattering. He looks to his feet, they bear no marks of frostbite, but they are numb with cold as he pulls on two layers of socks, as he pulls on his boots. He throws on a thick tunic, then his cloak, flexing and unflexing his right hand, the hand that is stiff with the cold that he doesn't understand.

He's headed to Friar Tuck, the Friar that doubles as a healer, when he exits his tent that's the destination Robin has in mind, but it's not the direction his feet carry him, Friar Tuck is to the left, four tents away, Robin turns right. The frost on the ground crinkles at his every boot fall, waking slowly, every step reminding him of his numb toes, his feet carry him past John's tent, past Tanja's, into the woods, down the path that leads to the creek.

He's being pulled there, the seeping awful cold that's crawled its way inside him as he lay sleeping, it's pulling him, and he's not fighting it.

When he sees Regina, the Queen, the bleary daze he'd been warped into suddenly breaks, snapping and his breath rushes from him, "M'lady!" he calls, his voice sharp in the bitter chill of early winter, the first dusting of snow is wavering through the air as Robin runs the rest of the way to the creeks edge. She's wearing no shoes, no cloak, only a nightshirt that is no protection in this weather, crumpled on a rock at the creeks edge, her hand dangling into the water that has chunks of ice floating down its current, she turns her head to look at him as he approaches.

Robin tears his cloak off himself, throws it over her before he takes her upper arms in his grasp and forces her to sit up, forces her hand away from the water, "You should be sleeping, Snow," she mumbles as Robin begins to rub his hands up and down her arms, she's shaking, her teeth chattering, her eyes are glazed, her voice far away.

"Look at me," Robin orders, and she does, vaguely though, she is still sleeping, Robin pushes hair off her face, "Wake up," he tells her, he shakes her with his grip on her arm.

Her head tilts, "I'm awake," she breathes, but that is not the truth. Robin's eyes narrow, he cups her face, the skin is burning with fever, the same fever that has Simon and his brother bedridden and delirious, the fever that has every child in the camp shivering and sweating in turns.

Robin had sat across the fire from her at dinner, had thought she looked paler than normal, her eyes brighter, but she had given no inclination of being unwell. She would have been feeling it by then, and she said nothing to the Friar, nor to Marian.

Robin gather's her up, lifts her into his arms and she shakes and shakes in his grasp, so different from the awful stillness she'd had the last time he held her, the shivering is no better than the stillness.

"Daniel," she breathes once, her eyes fluttering shut, her arms snaking around Robin's neck. A deep sigh is exhaled from her, the moisture of her breath puffing in the air, then her eyes are closed, Robin quickens his pace back up the path, his face contorting, through his cloak wrapped around her he can feel the fever, but a fever would not protect her fingers and toes from the cold.

"Robin," a voice queries, Dunstan's eyes widen at the sight of Robin's burden as Robin makes it back to camp, his breath leaving him in pants, Dunstan drops the stick he'd been poking the dying fire with, "what happened?" the man says, standing and walking with Robin towards the Friar's tent, only a few paces away now.

"She has the fever, it had her wandering to the creek in naught but her nightclothes," Robin answers, fear has his breath fast out of his mouth, the rocks of the creek are slippery, covered in wet moss, the creek face looks gentle, but no one but the strongest of swimmers would escape the drowning current that hides underneath. She would have drowned, drowned while dreaming, gone without anyone knowing till morning. "Tuck!" Robin hisses, Dunstan flings the tent flap open, the stink of wine enters the air.

The Friar sleeps on his back, snoring with a bottle half spilled beside him. "Tuck!" Dunstan says, kneeling beside the man, he gives the fat Friar a violent shove at the shoulders, but the Friar snores on.

Robin licks his lips, looks down at the Queen in his arms, Regina, her nose is bright pink, her cheeks too, he turns back to the fire Dunstan had been stroking, "Come to the fire, spread a blanket," Robin says, turning away as Dunstan turns Tuck onto his side, arranging the Friar's arms so the man will stay on his side during the night, so that he will not choke on his own vomit if he gets sick.

Dunstan leaves the Friar's tent, swiping angrily at the flap before he does as Robin had asked, spreading a thick blanket close to the fire.

The light dusting of snow has stopped falling, not even enough to leave a layer on the ground.

She's lighter then she had been weeks ago, lighter than the last time she had been in Robin's arms, he feels the same reluctance now as he did then, reluctance to release her weight from his arms, reluctance to let her go, but he must do so, Robin lays her down upon the spread blanket. Dunstan feeds the fire, it grows and grows under his tender care, by the fires flickering light Robin shuffles down until he's at her feet, picking one dainty appendage up and looking it over, the skin is bright red, a sigh works itself free, it's not yet frostbite, frostbite has skin waxy and white, but her foot is red.

Dunstan throws blanket after blanket over the shivering women, though her fever has her sweating, the cold is more dangerous than the fever, Robin rubs both of her feet, even as she groans and tries to kick him off, an echo of pins and needles rush through Robin's own feet, the sensation has his hands faltering on her, has his brow constricting, his eyes roaming up to the Queen's face. He does not know what this means, the pull that led him to her, the echo of her pain, he does not know what this means.

She groans again, tries to tear her foot from him, the pain of warmth where cold had been enough to have her mumbling and fighting him, he holds onto her foot, a soft shush escaping his mouth, he pushes his unease aside, pushes his questions from his mind, his focus on her feet until he's rubbed them until they are no longer red, he doesn't know how long he held them and rubbed them, but it's not till she has stopped shaking that Robin has Dunstan, who has stayed and kept the fire strong the whole time, Dunstan goes and fetches socks from her tent.

* * *

"M'lady?" Robin asks, asks as the first pink of dawn is on the horizon, the Queen is swallowing, licking her lips, she's waking up.

"hmmmm," she says, working herself up until she is sitting, he doesn't think she'll be able, but she does, fights until she is sitting, wincing with every breath, the confusion on her face at finding herself outside would have been enough to draw a smile from Robin, but he still remembers holding her dainty feet in his hands, remembers her laying by the creek in the cold, lovely and horrible like a dream with the snow in her dark hair.

"You knew you were ill and said nothing?" Robin asks, moving his head to snare her gaze, angry in a way that rushes through him without preamble, he didn't even understand how angry he was until this moment. He did not carry her from that awful place only to have her drown in the night.

It takes her a moment before she shakes her head, pulling at one of the blankets and wrapping it around her shoulders, huddling in the warmth, "I thought it would pass," she answers, her voice a rasp, the confusion is still on her face, "what did I do?" she asks, looking at him.

His anger melts at the sight of her face, her open eyes, her dark dark eyes still bright with fever, and he tells her, he tells her everything of the night…everything but for the echo he'd felt in his own feet, everything but for the pull that led him to her at the water's edge, everything besides the things that most trouble him.

Robin reaches out as he finishes his recounting, his hand on her forehead, her skin is sticky with sweat, at his hand meeting her skin her eyes close, the fever rages on inside her, "You knew you were ill and said nothing?" he repeats, because he does not understand why. He does not remove his hand from her forehead.

She smiles at him, a sad and weary smile, "The children needed more than I," she says, and the same something inside him that had him waking in her time of need, that same something that has his eyes constantly drawn to her, that something throbs with the knowledge that she is lying.

"You'll do all the Friar tells you," Robin says, his hand sliding till it is her cheek against his palm, "until you are well again, and if there is a next time you will ask for aid before I find you delirious in the snow, do you understand?"

"It seems you are to always be saving me," she says, as if in jest but there is a strange tone to her words, a strange look in her eye as she opens them and stares up at Robin.

That's the last lucid thing she says to anyone for the next three days.

* * *

"She's ill, she has the fever," Robin says to Matteo when the older man comes and asks of Regina's whereabouts. Friar Tuck had finally awoken, stumbling, hungover as he approached the fire, clearly it was breakfast he was expecting, but one sight at Regina and the godly man had helped her return to her tent, taking with her all the blankets that had been piled on her in the night.

Matteo frowns, "The fever?" he asks, surprise in his tone, "Only children get th-"

"Marian's first winter among us had her ill as well," Robin reminds Matteo, Marian had been sweating and crying, hallucinating for a week straight as she fell into the fever, as soon as the first itch blossomed in her throat she had been to see Friar Tuck, taking all remedy's offered to her, and none did anything for her. She had been nothing but a friend then, but Robin still remembers the terror at the thought of her being taken by something as common as the fever, something children survive through.

It's the same terror that is inside him now, for Regina, the same terror he felt at the sight of Regina nearly lost in the creek.

* * *

"How is she?" Robin asks, wrapping an arm around Marian as she settles before the fire, a tired stoop to her, she falls against him, burrows into his side.

The children sick had Marian stressed, she is Friar Tuck's helper by virtue of being one of the few in camp that knows how to read, the children are sick but the fever rarely takes the life of a child, when an adult falls victim that is where the real danger lies. Marian had shared that with him, reading it from one of Tuck's books, the added weight, that added fear, has Marian more and more frazzled, Robin does not know if Marian counts the Queen her friend, but he's beginning to think so.

"She keeps calling for a Daniel," Marian shakes her head, running hands through her hair, Daniel, Robin thinks, the same name she'd mumbled as she wrapped her arms around his neck, it's silly and foolish and not his place, it is _wrong_, but the thought of who this _Daniel_ is keeps rounding around Robin's mind.

The King's name, her husband's name, was Leopold, and Robin wonders who this Daniel was to the Queen.

"Tuck says she's doing better than I did though," Marian smiles, smiles up at Robin and he smiles back, though the memories haunt him even now, he did not know the extent of the danger when Marian had been ill so long ago. "Not a terribly hard thing to achieve, if I recall," Marian releases a breathy laugh.

"Not so" Robin says, a grin growing, and looking at Marian makes it easier to get the Queen from his mind, but he's lying to himself, because the Queen is with him constantly, "I do recall you wore the fever very well," she tsks her tongue at him, swats at his chest, "always running about half dressed."

They make light now, but Robin can't remember a time when he'd been more terrified (it is the same terror in him now, terror for the Queen, he won't go to her, she is not his to go to).

Two days gone though he does exactly as he said to himself he would not do. Robin goes to her tent in the night, does not enter, cannot let himself invade her space without her consent, but it's an invasion too, the way he looks at her once he's lifted the flap, looking at her sleeping, her mouth lightly parted, her breath even and still too heavy.

What is he doing here? Watching her sleep in the night? This is unseemly, unhonorable, but he stays.

It's at least fifteen minutes before he is caught, Friar Tuck clearing his throat from behind him, Robin was so enraptured by the sight of the sleeping Queen that he did not even hear the Friar's approach.

Robin drops the flap immediately, turning and looking at the Friar whose mouth is drawn tightly, "Robin," Tuck says, his voice quiet, "you must stop this."

"What, my friend?" Robin asks, and he wonders what the Friar will say.

Tuck dances from foot to foot lightly, but his gaze is unflinching, "She is beautiful, Robin, even I can tell this," Tuck shakes his head, "but you wear a ring upon your finger, a woman already your wife, you must stop this."

Robin swallows, but indignance is slow to grow, all the Friar says is the truth, "I don't know what impression you have gathered here, but-"

"Whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart," the Friar says, in a way that makes it clear he is quoting his holy book, but his holy book is not Robin's, and Robin feels rage growing. It is not lust inside Robin when his eyes find the Queen, nothing as base nor lurid as that, the insinuation that her beauty is all that could captivate him has Robin's fists tightening, "You are a good man," Tuck says passionately, steps closer, "but your feelings grow and you must stop this."

"I _know_ where my heart lies, where my duty lies," Robin says, bite to his voice, the Friar flinches back, "I do not need a _drunkard_ reminding me of my promises, do not need a man thrown from his cloister reminding me of honor," Robin hisses, and the Friar takes another step back, shame has color rising behind Tuck's ears. The Friar has nothing further to say.

* * *

Next morning he sees Regina with Matteo, thin and weak and still fighting sickness, her stubborn nature has her training with Matteo, snow is falling lightly, thick fluffy flakes that stick to her dark hair, stick to the cloak she wears. She's holding the knife in her hand like it is already a part of her body, she's fluid and graceful with that knife, Matteo is teaching her to wield it with her strengths in mind, her short stature is the key to her attacks, the idea that she will be quick where her enemies will be large.

He turns from the sight of her, turns from the sight of the smile upon her lips, the smile that looks akin to a snarl as Matteo shows her exactly where to strike for the wounds to be fatal.

Robin knows where his duties lie. Marian smiles at him as she hands him his breakfast, he sits beside her, kisses the side of her head, he knows where his heart lies.

He does.

He _does_.

* * *

**authors note, hey yall, how's everyone digging this fic? your reading it, so you must like it? yeah? I'm thinking yeah, my bro was so surprised Tuck was a drunk though, nd he's like aw I liked him, why would you do that? and it's like, because people have issues, even good people, and this is his issue**

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	5. Chapter 5

Robin's smile is like sunshine, especially now that winter is well and truly come, leaving everything a world of white and grey, winter to Marian as a child had meant days indoors, sitting comfortable before a warm hearth, playing leisurely in the dusty corridors, running through empty dark rooms, and every once in a while Marian and her brothers would throw on their layers and tromp out into the vast fields of untouched white their father's estate became every year, laughing and playing until the cold seeped in through their mittens, then it was back to the warmth and security of the manor. Winter to Marian now is far, far different then the winter of her childhood, winter is cold feet, a constantly running nose, winter is rationing of supplies, winter is wet, winter is heavy. "Marian," Robin says, that smile like sunshine pointed at her, "is it not breathtaking?" he says.

His gloved hand is wrapped around her gloved hand, the first heavy snowfall has left the forest floor, all the winding, brittle, and leafless branches, every single thing in view, covered in a thick coat of white, a white world where yesterday it had been not so. Marian shrugs a shoulder, and Robin pokes at her with his other hand, prodding her for her thoughts on the matter, until she speaks her mind with a smile, "It looks cold to me," Marian laughs, her laugh echoing and echoing, "cold and barren," she shivers, she had not liked to look upon the vast white fields of her childhood home either, looking at the endless snow had always left her desperately wishing for the flowers and green of spring instead.

Marian shivers and shivers, but Robin beside her stands tall, thick in his layers, his cheeks ruddy from the wind, he shakes his head before his gaze turns from the white covered woods, a glance behind them at the tents of the camp, a glance down to the snow between the tents, the snow that is already muddied, melted, and messy from the passage of peoples feet, "Cold and barren, you say," Robin lets go of her hand, only to wrap his arm around her instead, "I see it as untouched."

After the words leave his mouth, exactly after those words leave his mouth, Simon and his brother Peter, both bouncing back from their fever with indescribable ease, both boys come pelting from between two tents, cackling madly and dashing into the previously untouched and pristinely smooth surface of the new snow, their cloaks billowing behind them with their speed.

"Ahh," Robin sighs, and Marian covers her mouth with her hand as a giggle tries to escape.

Rebecca and Ann come running after the boys, not alone though, the sight has Marian's giggle fading, the Queen runs with the girls, tromping through the heavy snow with far more difficulty then the children, but no less enthusiastically.

The fever is still simmering in her, Marian knows this, can see even from so far away that sweat gathers at the Queen's hairline, but she's coherent, strong enough to run after the children that call her forth with shrill cries of her name, 'Regina! Regina!' and less frequently are the shrill cries of 'Majesty!" from the children, the title is ill-fitting now, Marian thinks, but it's still what Marian addresses her by. The Queen is in far better health than only two days ago, when she had been a sweating, sobbing, glassy eyed mess, begging and begging as she clutched at Marian's wrist whenever Marian got close, 'Daniel,' the Queen would beg, just the man's name over and over, for days and days (except for just once, a sobbed out 'Mama, don't, _please_,' wailed out into the air as she'd dug her nails into Marian's skin.)

The Queen should not be frolicking in the snow, playing in the cold, but Marian is not her keeper, and would not want to take the glee from the Queen's features in any case. Marian thinks the smile on the dark eyed, dark haired woman's face as she pelts through the snow after the children is the first true smile Marian has ever witnessed from her.

Children and woman are wrapped up in each other, Marian watches as the Queen picks up little Ann, only four years old, and spins her around before having them both fall back upon the snow, the little girl giggling and giggling, her blond hair stringing out from under her hat as she climbs back to her feet and scurries away, the Queen hot on her heels, almost catching her before a ball of snow catches her shoulder with enough force to have her stumbling in her heavy boots.

Robin shifts his weight, and it's only then that Marian looks up at him, the smile on her face, the smile at the squealing sound of the children's laughter, so much like the memories of her childhood, so much like the sounds of her and her brothers so many years ago, the smile on her face only grows at the sight of him, the grin he wears, his dimples deep.

"Simon!" the Queen yells, when Marian turns again to the scene it's to the sight of the Queen using a nine year old boy as a shield totally unashamedly, "Stop it! Simon! You're hitting your brother!" but her voice is wavering with laughter, and Peter is giggling too, holding up his arms to help shield her from the balls of snow that Simon is very gently lobbing at her.

When Robin turns his head to look at her, Marian instantly turns to regard him as well, he's bouncing on the balls of his feet, biting his lip and scrunching his face, he looks so much like a little boy asking permission to play with his friends that Marian tips her head back with a laugh, nodding and working her body free from the arm he still had around her, "Go, teach that boy a lesson, Robin," she laughs, and Robin does not waste a moment.

He bends down, clamps some snow between his hands and in seconds has a snowball. He launches it right at Simon as he runs forward, as gentle a lob as the ones Simon had been sending to the Queen, it hits the boy right at the back of the head, dislodging his hat and leaving him spluttering.

"Hey!" Simon cries, actually indignant, before he bends down to the snow, Robin laughs as he does the same.

Marian's feet are freezing, even with extra socks, and thick winter boots, she's shivering, teeth clattering, but she remains there with a smile, watching Robin.

Minutes later it's the Queen her gaze lands on, the three boys throw snow at each other, but the Queen has the girls on their backs, making snow angel after snow angel, little Ann doesn't seem to understand what they're trying to accomplish, but Rebecca, nearly seven, she can't help but grin after every new angel is born.

The Queen's cheeks are burning red, her nose too, but that smile, that smile and that dark, dark hair about her face, she looks close to angel herself sitting there in the snow as Ann climbs into her lap.

When Marian turns her gaze back to Robin, she finds Robin gazing at the Queen.

Marian's smile fades.

* * *

"So," Caline says, waggling her shoulders with her hands deep in the bucket before her, "what gift do you have for Robin?"

Marain's brows are pinched, her mouth drawn in a frustrated line, her own hands in a bucket of grey water, fingers wrapped around a child's tunic, submerged in water that is quickly losing the warmth it had gained after being heated above the fire, frowning as she tries to remember the instructions she'd received, "Gift?" she echoes, without looking up, it's not often the chore of laundry falls upon her, but Wahiba is on strict bedrest, giant with her second child, she can't walk, let alone bend over a bucket. Everyone must pull their weight, Marian knows this, but an insidious voice inside of her, the voice that only grows and grows as Marian's fingers prune in the water, that voice tells her this chore is beneath her.

"For his birthday," Caline says, a surprised exclamation that has Marian's head snapping up.

Marian blinks, remembering the year previously, before she and Robin were married, before they were anything beyond friends, the day of his birthday it hadn't stopped snowing. "It's a surprise," Marian says, smiling, turning back to her bucket, and Caline giggles, obviously having in mind what kind of surprise gift Marian could be giving Robin.

"When is his birthday?" the Queen asks, her voice is still rough, her breaths sometimes too heavy, she still has the look of someone ill. "Four days," Marian answers after a surreptitious glance at the Queen's own bucket of suds, some tense knot unclenches in Marian's chest at the sight of the Queen seemingly having as much trouble completing this chore as Marian is, four days Marian thinks, remembering the date easily, she _knows_ Robin's birthday, she knows it, she can't believe it slipped her mind, she has no gift for him yet, she has four days to acquire one. She could always do as Caline is no doubt expecting, some sultry surprise.

Marian looks up at the Queen as the other woman lets out a strange little noise, some form of surprise, the Queen has tired circles under her eyes, but she is still beautiful, still beautiful with almost chapped lips, still beautiful though the meat melted off her bones during the fever, leaving her thinner than ever before, and she was already so thin. "Four days?" the Queen asks, a smile stretching across her lips, bemused looking more than anything else.

"What?" Caline asks, watching the Queen's reaction, tilting her head at the Queen, but the Queen shakes her head, Caline asks again, "What is it?"

The Queen raises a shoulder, a motion far too dignified to be referred to as a shrug, she tucks her chin in towards her raised shoulder, "It's mine too," she says.

"Truly?" Marian asks, for some reason she cannot name this news has her uncomfortable (she cannot name it, _will not_ name the reason, because the reason is silly, baseless, but Robin's eyes follow the Queen, he touches her, but the touches are just like as he places on any other, he claps John on the back, he hugs Caline, he kissed Wahiba on the cheek when he heard the news of her newest child, there is nothing improper to Robin, nor to the Queen, but here is something they seem to share and the news has…something Marian will not name only growing inside her.)

The Queen nods, even as Caline is already practically vibrating in excitement, "A double celebration then!" the older woman says. The old woman loves any opportunity to bake a cake, this no doubt a perfect excuse to bake two instead of one, but Caline's cakes are not the fluffy and sugary concoctions Marian grew up eating, nothing here, in this camp, in this world, is as it had been in Marian's old life.

"Were you not going to say anything?" Caline says, wringing a tunic in her hands, the water sloshing sloshing everywhere, it's her last piece of laundry. "My darling, you would have your birthday pass without note?"

The Queen's lips purse, eyes pointed down, that motion that is not a shrug once more bouncing her shoulder as she has her hands in the suds, "It has passed without note for many years," she answers, the answer leaves Caline frowning, frowning until she shakes her head and clears her throat.

"Well," Caline announces, "that is no longer the case. Now tell me, do you enjoy cake?"

* * *

_Lovely Lida, Marian's step mother, oh, Marian had adored her._

_"Come here, sweetling," Lida says, beckoning and beckoning, sitting upon the back steps of the manor, spring flowers weaved into her dark hair, Marian so loved her hair, her lovely Lida, and Lida loved Marian's, only five years difference between them, Marian held Lida's hands in hers and christened them the best of friends._

_Already married to her father, already moving into the house that had been cold and empty and hollow after the death of Marian's mother, Marian's mother dead of illness that left her thin and wrinkled and old, so suddenly old and frail, when it was Marian's father that should have been the one to pass, the older of the two, already old even before Marian was born, Lida came not four months later, come home with Marian's father after a trip to the south, 'this is your new mother,' Marian's father said._

_'this is your new mother,' he said, but he was no longer Papa, he was Robin, Robin standing in the stiff collared coat Papa used to wear always, out of fashion for a decade and Papa wore it anyway, Robin's hand in Regina's hand, it was Regina in Lida's dress, the pale yellow dress she wore with the puffed elbow sleeves and beautiful ruffles at the hips, no, Lovely Lida where, Papa_

_Robin don't, 'this is your new mothe-_

* * *

Marian sit's before the fire, a mug of tea in her hands, the mug so hot it would have burned her if not for her mittens, her dream comes to her in flashes, she closes her eyes with a sigh, tossing and turning all night, she is tired and heavy, the tail of her cloak already wet, her boots heavy.

She'd woken and kissed Robin who lay on his side watching her, Robin who had pulled back and grumbled, "If only there was a good reason to wake today," he had mused, fighting hard to keep his grin off his face, a battle he always, always lost.

Marian had rolled her eyes, "Isn't it someone's birthday today?" she mused, purely for the benefit of his game.

"The Queen's I think," he'd continued, Marian had not let her expression slip, had kept playing though his words suddenly had all the dreams she dreamt during the night rushing at her. Feelings churning her stomach, turmoil burning inside her.

"Someone else's as well, I do believe," Marian had wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging him down to her, till his lips were ghosting hers, "I do believe, you are the birthday boy actually," she'd said before she'd tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him into a wet kiss.

He is my husband, Marian had been thinking, to reassure, to lay claim, she doesn't even know, she doesn't know, he is my husband.

"Good morning, Marian," the Queen says as she sits two seats down the log from Marian, Marian jumps at the sound of her voice.

"Happy birthday, Majesty," Marian responds, she can't help but return the smile that Regina sends her, such a bashful thing the Queens smile is, a shy thing sitting here before the fire with Marian.

Marian's fears don't fade away, her _baseless_, she tells herself, her _silly_, fears, her smiles come easy with the Queen, their conversation flowing without cumber, the Queen is a good woman, beyond that, a voice inside Marian, a voice that remembers the pearly white gown soaked in blood, _that_ voice whispers that the Queen is also a broken women, and both those things mean the Queen is not something to fear, and as the pair of women laugh together over a joke Dunstan mangles, Marian thinks perhaps the Queen is also a friend.

When Robin returns to camp though, dragging a deer behind him for the double celebration, it's not Marian he looks to first, it is, for a second, not even a second, and the Queen is not even facing him, he looks to the Queen first.

And Marian feels as if she is drowning.

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	6. Chapter 6

Regina is alone, removed from the celebration, far from the stink of wine, from the echoing sound of laughter, the air is crisp, there is no warmth to the trees that surround her, she huddles in her thick cloak, her fingers cold in her gloves, she looks off into the distance at the speck of orange light that is the bonfire lit to celebrate two birthdays, her feet rooted in the white snow. Her breath puffs in the cold air, her uneven breaths that she tries hard to calm.

It had been Simon that had driven her away, sixteen, young, spirited, allowed wine for the first time in his life, a drunken mess after only three shares, he'd slung his arm about her shoulders, breathed the stink of wine across her face, and the need to be away, to _escape_, had come on so suddenly that it left Regina panting, panting and walking quickly away (_running_) as Simon called after, following until some person Regina did not turn to look at stopped the boy.

"M'lady?"

Regina startles, sniffs at the snot running from her nose, her gloved fingers up and rubbing at the cheeks that still hold evidence of tears. Her breath stutters when she turns, sees Robin approaching with raised hands, the stars are shining up in the sky, the moon as well, the snow underfoot reflecting all the brilliant white light, and all that means is he can see her weakness more clearly.

"You followed me?" Regina asks as she turns her head from him, allowing the hood of her cloak to block her view of him, to block his view of her as well.

"Indeed, I did," he answers, she can hear the crunching sounds of his foot falls now, her panic, her panting breath, had not let her hear it before, but as he gets closer it is impossible to ignore the crinch and crackle of the snow under his boots. There is no shame in his admittance.

"Impertinent of you, is it not?" Regina scoffs, her voice warbles on the last word, she swallows, crossing her arms about herself, watching as the bonfire's light blinks as bodies pass before it, dancing has started, the lively tune of a lute spreads out into the night, wavering and half lost for the distance. She does not wait for whatever he has to say in response, "You're missing the dancing," she tells him, her chin jutting out towards the fire, though he cannot see the gesture.

He stops beside her, close, she does not know how she knows he is close because she has not turned to look, and they are not touching, but he's as close as he can _be_ without touching.

"As are you, M'lady," he says, his voice low, quiet and whispered, the quietness fits in the cold, feels right accompanied with the softly trilling lute.

"I've had enough of dancing to last a lifetime," Regina says just as quietly, never again will she be the pretty doll spun about a ballroom, the doll dressed up and paraded on the King's arm, in a dress weighted with jewels, a dress chosen for her by a child, Snow chose what Regina wore every day, the girl playing dress up with her favorite toy, but Regina is no one's plaything now, not now and never again.

"That saddens me," Robin steps from her side to face her, and it would be ridiculous to try to shy from his sight when he is three feet before her nose, Regina looks right into his grinning face, "I had hoped for a dance from the Queen of Sherwood sometime this night."

Regina lets out a breath, shaking her head in an almost laugh, "I thought I was no Queen without a crown?" she asks, crowns are heavy things, heavier even then a jeweled gown, heavy and weighted and too _much_, slowly crushing Regina under their weight, crushing and crushing like a bug under a heel, crushing until there would be nothing left at all, if a crown makes a Queen, then no crown will ever touch Regina's hair again.

"Ah, well," Robin tips his chin down, there's color on his cheeks and it must be from the cold wind that bursts against them, sending the tips of Regina's hair madly dashing, the edges of their cloaks whipping about their legs, as Robin holds up a circlet made of white little flowers, he pulls it from somewhere Regina can't see, a crown of Snowbells, a fragile, pretty thing, the sight instantly has Regina laughing. Robin's head bounces back up, affront jesting on his features, his mouth opening in feigned hurt, "You laugh at my gift to you?"

Regina will never wear a crown again, none but this one, she decides as she looks at the delicate creation in Robin's calloused hands, the dainty flowers so tiny in his hands, she reaches up and flips back her hood, the wind snatching at her hair before it calms, the branches are slow to stop quivering, until it's once more stillness and quiet under the moons light, "I doubt very much you made that lovely thing alone," Regina tilts her head, gazing at him in admonishment, until he rolls his eyes and looks away.

"Perhaps little Ann was some help," he admits as he reaches both hands up, raises both arms slowly, slowly, and lands the crown upon her dark hair once she bows her head for him, "she was adamant though that it was a halo for an angel, and not a crown for a Queen," he's smiling softly when Regina tilts her eyes back up to him, crinkles in the corners of his blue eyes as he looks at her, his hands return to his sides as softly clenching fists, and Regina narrows her eyes at that before she shakes the observation away.

The tune of the lute turns slower, tinkling off in the distance softly, Robin takes a breath before he steps back from her, a shoulder raised, looking very much like he does not want to say what is about to be said, "Simon did not mean to startle you," he says.

And Regina's good humor, the odd peace that had fallen on her with the snowbell crown seems to leech off into the cold, "He didn't," she denies, and her denial is a flimsy thing between them, Robin does not even respond to it.

"He has been told not to be so free in his touches with you-"

"Pardon?" Regina interrupts, biting the word out, instantly filled with rage, hot and burning rage, "and who told the boy that? I am not some _broken_ woman that cannot endure an embrace from a child, I-"

Robin is not a man to stand meekly, his voice is sharp, but still quiet in the night, but he is not _angry_, she can tell by the expression in his eyes, those blue, blue eyes, is he…jealous…of the child, of Simon? That can't be, Regina tells herself as Robin steps closer to her, says to her, "He is not so much a child as you would like to believe, surely you can see he has an inkling of intention-"

Regina scoffs, her arms once more crossed before her, uncomfortable under the stare of those blue, blue eyes, "A crush is not intention," she corrects Robin, "he is a _child_, and I do not need you to protect me from him, nor is it-"

"Do you tell me that his breath stinking of wine against your face and the weight of his arm on your shoulders did not have you fleeing your own birthday celebration?" He cuts his arm down, as if throwing something down to the ground between them with his words that are – are impossibly close to the truth. How is it he so closely knew the truth of it, Regina does not know, she does not take comfort in his knowing, it unsettles her that she is so transparent, so easily observed and read, she had thought her mask finely crafted, Snow had never seen past it in all the years Regina had played mother to the girl.

Robin is only close to the truth though, but not quite there, Regina licks her lips and turns her head, "It was bad memories I was fleeing from," she whispers, does not know why she shares the rest of the truth with him, "not the child," and her anger leaves her, leaves her cold and shaken.

She does not flinch from the touch of Robin's hands on her arms, and is it not strange that Simon's touch had spiraled her down a tunnel of panic, but Robin's touch brings only comfort, he grasps her biceps softly, and it's silly to think she can feel his warmth through the gloves he wears, through her cloak and tunic, through all the layers that separate their skin, it's silly to think it, but she swears his touch warms her from the cold. Regina can't look at him, cannot look at the pity he will wear on his face, the same pity his wife is always looking at her with. Marian, with her kind eyes and her Noble birth, Marian seems to know exactly the cruelties of Regina's old life; it makes her pity ten times worse to bear.

"You have endured more than I can imagine," he says to her, grips her tighter a fraction, "a gilded cage it may have been, but a cage is a cage no matter how rich, you survived that place, M'lady."

Regina swallows, her bottom lip quivering, she still cannot look at him.

"Memories will assault you, drown you, but you must remember that you are _free_," he starts to pull her in, pull her towards him, and she'd never thought she'd want a hug from a man again, never want arms around her in any form, not since Daniel has she had such comfort offered to her, and it surprises her when she willingly falls against him. "Just as you asked of me," Robin's voice is wavering by her ear, she turns her cheek against his chest with her eyes slammed shut, a gloved hand grappling at his cloak, "you are free of all that held you before," he whispers into her hair, his breath hot and moist against her ear.

When her tears come, and they come quickly, because Simon's breath _had_ rattled her terribly, the weight of his arm sending her back to Leopold's ballroom in a real and awful way, a visceral way that felt real just as it felt like a dream, some panic induced waking nightmare that morphed from a ballroom to a bedroom as she stumbled farther from the fire, she feels Robin's hands on her back, solid and real, Leopold's had felt real and solid too, not long ago, real and solid as he held her down with him atop her, as he thrust inside her grunting, it had felt real, but it _wasn't_ and Regina knew that but could not stop the pain. Robin holds her closer, she had learned to cry without sound long ago, laying in her bed at night as a child, scared and silent, crying without sound, it is that silent suffering that swallows her now, sobbing against Robin's chest, this man that is always looking at her, this man that is warm and solid, who'd carried her from her gilded cage. He stays there holding her, standing and holding her as huge flakes of snow begin to fall, drifting lazily down and coating their shoulders with white, holds her until her tears are gone, and when she finally draws back from him, ashamed and cold with her tear tracks frozen to her cheeks, there is no pity in his blue, blue eyes.

There is only care.

"Come back to the fire?" he asks, holding a hand out to her that she finds herself grasping before even choosing to do so, "Caline would die if we were not there to enjoy her cakes," Robin laughs, throwing a smile over his shoulder as he tugs her along five steps with his grip on her hand before he allows her hand to slip from his.

* * *

Little John has had far too much to drink, he stinks of wine in the same way Simon had, Regina swallows thickly, turns her head slightly, but every adult save her and Robin (and those on guard around the perimeter of the camp, Regina can see their slowly patrolling shadows through the trees, and at least one of them must have seen her panicked fit) seem to be a little bit more then merry on wine and homemade brew, it is a smell she will have to endure, at least for tonight , she keeps her smile on her face as John stumbles and presents a cake to her, one candle lit and ready for her to wish upon, Marian holds Robin's cake only a step away, Robin and Regina side by side, they are both twenty-six today, sharing a birthday, a birthday on the same year, they blow out their candles at the same time, amid the peeling laughter of children and drunks.

* * *

A week after their birthday little Ann comes to Regina with a Snowbell crown (where the supply of flowers came from, for this new crown, and the old, Regina cannot fathom, she has seen no Snowbells in or around camp), the tiny child demanding in her adorable lisp for Regina to bend her head and wear it. There is no denying the child, Regina is recrowned as the Queen of Sherwood, a joke, a game, shared between she and Robin as they lock eyes over the fire after Ann walks off, with her chest puffed out, quite proud of herself. When Regina shakes her head softly, returning to her meal, it's to the sight of Robin smiling, almost as proud of himself as the child he has roped into the game.

* * *

They are speaking of his homeland across the sea, Matteo and Regina, as they meander through the trees, returning to camp after a lesson, he has that almost smile on his face as he speaks of a land where dragons hurl ice instead of flame, his almost smile is stuck on his face as he's encased in blue, magic freezing him mid-step in an instant.

The Dark One's giggle is an awful sound, Regina whips around at hearing it, turns away from Matteo to face Rumple, her heartbeat hitching, and there is the monster shaped like a man, leaning against a tree so casually, his green skin, his golden skin, unnatural and sickening in the bright light of midday.

"What have we here?" he squalls, his lurid red cloak clashing terribly with his skin as it billows out behind him as he stalks towards her after pushing himself off his perch, he walks over the snow instead of sinking down into it. As if he is not real, as if he is but another phantom of the life Regina is trying to leave behind, but his magic has frozen Matteo, frozen him mid stride, a field of shimmering blue wrapping around the man, Rumple is _here_. He is real.

"Rumple," Regina greets, her tone is flat, the word comes out cold, rage simmers inside of her at the sight of him. He had betrayed her.

Rumple smirks as he comes to a stop in front of her, they are about the same height normally, but he stands atop the snow instead of sinking into it and that has Regina having to tilt her head up to look at his mean grinning face.

"Playing peasant in the woods, dearie," he titters, bends his knees, tilts his head, a mocking pout drifting over his lips, but he cannot contain his grin, "It does not suit you," he confides.

Regina is not blind to the way her appearance has changed, thin from sickness, yet more muscled than ever before from training with the knife, Matteo's lessons building her strength slowly, Matteo, who still stands frozen, his eyes frantically swishing between Regina and Rumple. The softness of her face, the last vestige of her adolescence, is finally gone, is gone, leaving a face that is gaunt, cheek bones prominent and striking, dark eyes shine from the new sharp face she wears, dark eyes with dark circles under them, evidence of nights tossing and turning restlessly, no, she certainly does not look like the Queen she'd been, but Rumple is mistaken. It suits her just fine.

"Why are you here?" Regina seethes, he had betrayed her. She had held so little trust in him, in the trickster, in the monster, but even that little trust had been too much. He had betrayed her.

"To talk sense into you, of course," he lands a hand on his chest, as if the answer was obvious, as if he is a kind soul doing some great duty, "how will your revenge be served if you're mucking about in the backwoods, hmmm?" he questions, does not wait for whatever answer she may give him, "How will you achieve Snow White's head on a platter if-"

"What of my revenge on you?" she spits at him, leaning in towards him, snarling, and there is a great moment of pleasure that runs through her when Rumple's eyes narrow at her, visibly caught off guard by her interruption and her words.

"On me?" Rumple gasps, the mirth that is his mask, the madness that he wears so often is there for only a moment longer, and then it melts from his face, the mirth that is just a mask on him finally dropped, "What slight have I ever done to you?" and he has the audacity to look confused.

How can he say that to her? _How can he say that to her?_

"You told him!" she screams, emotion she'd been numb to suddenly sparking and overflowing, numb for so long but it was there broiling in her gut, growing and growing beneath the cold and the numb, and the night comes back to her, the night her husband – the night he, and all her buried feelings come out, the betrayal and the fear and the awful _burning shame_, flowing like fire through a dry field, "You told him about the potions that _you_ made for me!" she screams, her voice echoing through the woods, ringing and ringing.

The knife is in her hand, the beautiful red handled blade, the blade that is magic and thrumming, alive in her hand, Matteo has trained her on this knife, she's pulled it from the sheath at her waist, she doesn't remember pulling it free but it's in the hand she raises between the Dark One and herself, "Do you know what he did to me? Because of you?! Because you told him!?"

Rumple's brow has pulled down, a frown on his face, his head tilted like he is still confused in the face of her contorting features, "Regina-" he starts.

Her name from his lips, god, she had trusted him, trusted him so little, but still it had been too much, her name from him, in that consoling tone he has only used before a handful of times, it has her rage blinding her, has her springing forward, Matteo's lessons in her mind, the jugular, she thinks, she'll drive the blade right into his neck and into his artery, and even magic men still die, they must.

Rumple raises a lazy hand, flinging her back; she slams against a tree, sees stars and cries out before she crumples to the snow, the knife still in her hand.

"Regina," her name an admonishment now as Rumple walks towards her crumpled form, still walking over the snow, his blood will stain the snow red, Regina waits for him to step closer, when she attacks again it's with the knife intended for the femoral artery in his thigh, he will bleed out, his blood will taint the snow.

"Stop it!" he hisses, throwing her back once more with enough force to have her bouncing and rolling until she splays on her front in the snow, her breath knocked from her, but the knife is tight in her grasp. "I told the King nothing!" Rumple yells.

She has held off magic for so long, for fear of what the camp would do to her if they saw any hint of it, but she no longer cares, she _does not care_ about anything but having Rumple's life blood spilling from him. Regina climbs to her knees, still gasping, her face red from exertion and pain and cold, her left hand, the hand free of the knife, she flings it out at him, fire burns from her fingertips, a hurtling ball of flame aimed for his face, he raises a wall of snow from the ground, a barrier between him and the flame, the snow melts with the heat of it, a sheet of water falling to the ground, the fireball gone.

Rumple growls in frustration, he tries to encase her as he has done Matteo, she shatters the shell as soon as it's in place around her, shattering it from the inside with a blast of magic, magic fueled with rage, magic is emotion, and she has enough to destroy him, she doesn't know when she started to cry, when the tears started down her face, but they are there, freezing as she calls creaking and protesting roots up from under the floor of snow, up from the earth that is there home, calling to them, they come to her bidding, wrapping about the Dark One's ankles, he stumbles for a moment, only a second, and it's all she needs to puff beside him in a cloud of purple smoke, to swipe the blade across his belly, but she has not cut deep enough to have his insides spill out, he had enough time to flinch back from her and the blade.

"Regina!" he screams, his hand quick like a viper, snatching the wrist attached to the hand that holds the dagger before he trips over the roots and onto his back, pulling her with him to the ground as he holds the knife away from him, away from his body.

She scrabbles atop him, straddling him around the middle, the blood from his belly is warm under her thighs, it's staining her dress, her cloak, "Why did you tell him?" she screams, she can barely see for her tears, she's not crying silently now, her breath is harsh, panting, freezing as it's drawn into her constricting lungs, she's trying to escape his grip, trying to pull her arm up so she can sweep it down into his chest, his grip is tight on her wrist, his yellowed nails digging into her skin.

"I told him nothing! I swear to you!" he tells her, the two most powerful practitioners of magic, and they are grappling at each other over a knife, Rumple seems to comes to that laughable conclusion at the same time as Regina, and before she can even twitch her fingers and twist his neck, he has already flung his wrist and called forth a huge chunk of ice, it flies towards the side of her head.

It strikes with a crunch against her skull, sharp agony blooms as she falls off him, slumping to the side, she has dropped the knife.

She's shivering in the snow, through her daze she manages to raise a hand against her head wound, when she draws her hand away it is stained red, as if far away she realizes it is a bad injury, her sight is blurry, she's limp in the snow, shivering. She hears the sound of the roots returning to their rightful place, the sound unlike anything else, and then she's being pulled into a lap, Rumple's ugly golden face hovering above her, his yellowed teeth showing through his frown, his lips are moving.

"The children," Regina slurs, looking up at him, "all his children, you told him about all the potions- all dead – you told, told him-"

He's shaking his head, his blurry head, his mouth moving and now there's a ringing in her ears, he raises his hand, it's gentle as he rests it against her hair, against the wound he had inflicted upon her.

Healing magic spills from him, soothing, a balm, he's healing her, healing her and frowning, a scowl on his features. The twisted imp, the heartless monster, he holds her in his lap and heals the wound that bleeds and bleeds against his hand.

"know," she breathes, she is warm and she is cold, his magic pumping through her blood, "what he did – did to me-" she murmurs, "-hurt me, he," trying to turn away from Rumple, the ringing less and less in her ears, her sight less and less, things are blurry and dark, and a jumble, the last thing she sees before her eyes blink closed though, is it really him, through the trees, running and running, she sees Robin running to her.

* * *

**authors note, hey yall, you've been so good to me, honestly, but someone must (like statistically must) have some constructive criticism here, something they don't like, and I want you to share it, I mean if YOU wanna share obvi, I'm not like holding a weapon on you or anything, but yeah, enjoy**

**and I know I hurt Regina a lot, I don't know why, because I really do love her, like I LOVE her, I don't know man, I just don't know.**

**EDIT alright folks, people are thinking these two cats (Robin and Regina) are maybe twins, this is a big NO, that is not where this is going, I'm sorry if that's how it came across, I JUST THOUGHT THAT SOUL MATES SHOULD COME INTO THE WORLD ON THE SAME DAY...BUT THEN IT BEGS THE QUESTION OF HOW THEY LEEAAAAVVVE THIS WOOORLD, DOESN'T IT?**

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	7. Chapter 7

Robin sits quietly in Tanja's small tent; the structure stinks of dog, her ugly little mystery breed sits beside her, a loyal dog, old with grey at its muzzle. Robin sits with Tanja and her mutt, sitting and thinking of other things as he looks at Tanja's hands, at her fingers that move the knitting needles, they are gnarled, frail and thin, the knitting goes slowly, but she has made steady progress on what looks like a pullover, slow but steady, "Pass me that, Gideon," Tanja says, her voice wavering in her age, her breath warbling from her weak lungs.

Gideon has been dead for twelve years, Tanja's son, he is long dead, and it is not always that Tanja forgets, but when she does, when she forgets that she is the last of her family, her husband gone, all her children dead, when she forgets that, it is always Robin she calls Gideon.

"This?" Robin asks, reaching for a new roll of yarn, Robin always, always, makes sure she's brought new yarn whenever there is a trip into civilization, her stores are running low now, the winter snow closing the easier paths and roads out of, and into, Sherwood. Tanja squints at the yarn he holds before nodding, smiling a small smile, half her teeth missing.

"Thank you, son," she says, gestures with her chin for him to place it by her leg, Tanja is the oldest person Robin has ever known, well into her nineties, bent and frail and impossibly old, there is no home for her anywhere but here, but here is a hard life, it is hard and she is frail. "This color will go with Andila's eyes, do you see?" she wheezes, and Robin thinks, swallowing thickly as he does so, that it's likely Tanja will not survive this winter.

Tuck says not to play into Tanja's confused mind, but how can Robin not, when the old woman smiles, sharp shoulders rising by her ears, smiling, happy, all he can do is nod at the old woman, though he has not a clue who Andila was, smiles at the old woman though he knows that the eyes the pullover are meant to match probably closed, closed forever, long years ago.

"Do you know how lucky it is for you?" Tanja giggles, titters out a breathy wheeze of laughter, her fingers steady, looping and knotting and looping, knitting pearl after pearl, even as her body shakes with sickness and with mirth, the old mutt by her side huffs, rearranges itself to lay on its side.

Robin reaches forward to pat the dog, smiling at Tanja, he feels a draft from somewhere, the bitter cold wind finding its way through the canvas of her tent, he is looking for the source as he asks her, "Why is that, babcia?"

She surprises him when the sound of her knitting needles ceases, he looks at her, finds her dark eyes pointed at him, that smile still stretched on her wrinkled face, "Gideon, my son," she says, holds up one of her shaking hands to him, fingers curled and beckoning until he clasps the digits softly, "Andila is your promised half, don't you see?"

The dog sneezes, body jerking against Tanja's side, she's wheezing out another happy laugh, squeezing Robin's hand, her joints swollen and clumsy, "The half of you the gods tore away in their jealousy, my beautiful son," there is such warmth and love in her eyes, as her head tilts and she looks at Robin and imagines him to be the son she lost so long ago, her darling son, "my golden boy, she is your soul mate."

Looking back at it, much later, Robin will think how strange it was, that Regina's pain would come to him at that very moment, the lancing pain, an agony filled blow to the back that has him gasping and dropping the old woman's hand. The dog snorts and sits up, wary, inching before its master as Robin tries to catch his breath.

"Is it Andila?" Tanja asks, gnarled hands on his shoulder, "Robin?"

It is Regina, the same sensation that had overcome him and brought him to the creek the night her fever nearly had her losing her toes to frostbite, the night her fever had her wandering the cold air with no coverings but a nightshirt, it is the same phantom pain that he knows is not his own, it's hers and the panic will come later, the burning questions of _how this can be_, will come later, he'd done his best to drive them from his mind, but here they are again, impossible to ignore.

Robin lurches to his feet, remembering to bend lest he hit his head upon the roof of Tanja's tiny tent; he fumbles for the flap as another blow has his breath whooping from his lungs. Tanja's voice is shrill from where she still sits upon her thick rugs, "Robin, my son, go to her, go to Andila!"

He stops for his bow first, for his quiver, his whole body shaking with the effort to fight the need to follow the thread that pulls and pulls at him, Marian sees his panic, his sweating face and panting breath as he throws the quiver to his back, she tries to touch him but he's already moving away. "Robin," she calls, "what is it? What's wrong?"

"I have to go," he says, "I have to go."

She snares his elbow, a soft touch, "Robin, wait."

He pats her hand once, looks down at her, barely sees her for his swirling thoughts, Regina is hurt, he must get to her, "I'm fine," he tells his wife, gently lifting her hand from him, "I have to go, the Queen is hurt."

Marian frowns, her brows pinching in concern, "The Queen?" she shakes her head, "Robin, how could you know tha-"

A sharp pull aches in his chest, and perhaps there is a thread wrapped around his heart, pulling him, "I'll be back," then he is running, pelting to the south through the trees, tromping with heavy strides through unpacked snow, each lifted heel an effort, he runs and runs, nearly is thrown completely when a crunching pain strikes at his skull, searing, he raises a hand there, and finds nothing, none of the blood he was sure he could feel gushing down the side of his face, because it's not his wound to bear, not his blood that flows, his panic grows. The Queen's name spilling from his lips, his eyes wide as he runs anew, runs and runs.

He sees Matteo through the trees, not noticing at first the blue shimmer around the other man, not noticing fully that Matteo is frozen in place, he sees Matteo first, runs faster, screaming out to him. He erupts into the clearing, snapping branches as he barrels between two closely twined trees.

Robin is still panting as his eyes graze over the white floor of the clearing, knowing the blow to her skull will have her down, will have felled her, he's looking to the snow to find her. He nearly stumbles back at what he finds instead.

"Unhand her, NOW!" Robin screams, his bow armed in no time at all, the motion so practiced, so easy, even in his panic and now is growing rage. The weapon is a comfort to him, holding it, deadly and ready, but his comfort lessens when the creature does nothing at the threat.

The -man, the gold flecked monster, does not heed him, does not even look up to regard him, continues to cradle Regina in its lap, his hand stained with her blood as he holds it against her hair, against the wound Robin had felt a phantom of on his own body. "_DEMON, unhand her_!" Robin takes several steps forward, his aim steady, though his entire body shakes and shakes.

And still the man does not heed Robin; a glow comes from between the man's fingers, on the wound that is bleeding in Regina's hair, her dark hair matted with blood, her body limp, her eyes closed. Robin lets loose his arrow. He never misses, there is no risk to her, he lets loose his arrow and watches as it is frozen midair an inch from the demon's down turned eye.

The man makes no motion, stays on the ground with Regina held to him, held in his lap, her skirts are wet with blood, fresh red, Robin takes another step, his vision turning as red as the stains on her dress, flashing in his mind is her in the porcelain bathtub, bleeding and torn apart, her soft white gown ruined with blood, a snarl contorts Robin's mouth, another step taken, another arrow notched.

Robin's body is absolutely unresisting when it is thrown back, violently thrown, he'd not seen the man move at all, had no warning of the blow that flings him halfway across the clearing, leaves him gasping and grasping at his ribs in the tromped on snow. His bow yards away from him, snapped in half.

A wordless bark of frustration leaves his lips, his hand still held against his ribs as he tries to stand, only to be frozen, the same as Matteo, his muscles straining and straining against a field of blue, magic he cannot fight. Robin's lungs constrict, his eyes sweeping to the pair in the snow.

Regina is covered in blood, head wounds bleed, they gush blood, Robin knows that, but his worry, his fear grows worse and worse as he cannot move, cannot be beside her and feel her pulse, being able to feel it thudding against his fingers, her blood pumping through her veins, even that small assurance would be enough to quell his terrible panic. He is useless, immobile, stuck with one foot half raised, body tipped forward still ready to sprint to her side, held there with magic, held there by the man, the monster, with golden and green skin.

Robin can do nothing but watch, breath heavy through his nose, his ribs aching sharply, watching as the man shifts Regina in his lap, as his hand threads into her hair, the light from between his fingers growing, a frown on his twisted features. One hand may be at her head wound, but the other is wrapped around her shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of her bloodied cloak, a desperate grasp that he uses to shake her. She does not rouse as he'd no doubt wanted. Her head wobbles, neck still stretched, muscles still lax in unconsciousness, "Regina," the monster hisses.

The demon knows her name. Robin blinks.

In the not even second his eyes were closed, during his blink, Regina has moved, only purple smoke left in the demon's grasp. She did not make it far, but still, how did she get there, she is several strides away from the green skinned man, blinking her eyes open, fingers digging into the snow, her fingers red from the cold, from being unprotected. The left side of her face painted in blood, her hair matted, her clothes stained, she is panting, trying to raise her torso from the ground, only to find herself face first for her efforts.

"Don't touch me," she breathes, Robin barely hears her, he is frozen and too far from her, his muscles burn as he tries again and again to free himself, she says it as the demon tries to stand, she says as she props herself up on her elbows.

The demon is not without injury himself, Robin realizes for the first time, his lurid clothes, expensive clothes, are ruined with blood, a huge gash cut in the cloth of his shirt and vest, his skin is slashed underneath, a gutting swipe that had not gone deep enough to spill his intestines out.

"Listen to me," the demon growls, grabbing at Regina's hair, but it's not a forceful grip, but the mere action, the mere idea that he thinks he can touch her at all after she has said not too, Robin's blood boils as the man tips Regina's head back, makes her look up at him from where she is still sprawled in the snow. "I told the King nothing."

She shakes her head, as if to dislodge his grip on her hair, but all she achieves is rattling her head wound, she groans, falls from her elbows, the demon lets go of her hair then, instead of pulling it as she falls. And then he kneels by her side, Robin's eyes widen, a sound working itself free, a warning growl, the demon sweeps hair of Regina's face, the action is intimate, the demon had known her name, and he pets her hair off her face, Robin's blood boils.

"He knew," she says, her voice weak, turning away from the man's hand, "how else would he know?" she rolls onto her back with the demon's aid, something she seems to resent, she pushes his hands away after taking his help. Her words are slurred, the head wound is not completely healed, much is closed, but still a part of it oozes blood, "I trusted you," she seethes.

The demon's eyes squint, an almost flinch moves his arm, a barely seen movement.

"Do you know what he did to me?" she asks next, and Robin remembers the stained white gown, remembers Caline with her needle and thread, leaving Regina's side with wide eyes and a haunted expression. "He poisoned my wine with poppy milk," Regina slurs, and Robin has to close his eyes, squeezing them shut, but there is no way to block her voice, no way to give her whatever privacy she may realize she wants, he is frozen. "He held me down and hurt me, Rumple," she whimpers out what must be the demon's name; it's enough to prompt Robin to open his eyes once more.

The demon has a hand once more petting the hair off Regina's face, the vision of a father and a daughter float through Robin's mind, something about the man's hand is paternal, but the thought is there and gone in a moment, as Regina begins to cry, huge sobs that wrack her whole abused frame.

The demon shushes her, and it is exactly the sound one would make to a crying babe, a desperate entreaty that it is alright, that you are safe, all said in one 'shhhh sh sh'.

The sound of clinking armor, of horses heavy on the trail, the sound of men shouting far away, the sound comes then, and finally the demon looks at Robin. The demon still has a hand at Regina's forehead, is still kneeling beside her, his wide, dark eyes, cold but so terribly and horribly _human_, they dig into Robin, his gaze skittering up and down Robin's form, across his face, his head tilts once, a sharp gesture that looks unnatural, strange and reptilian.

Regina is still crying, the head wound still oozing blood.

An undecipherable shout is heard again, a man's voice, the armor clinking and clinking, echoing through the forest, there is only one road that the company must be traveling. Kings men wear armor, knights.

Robin's panic doubles, triples, grows exponentially…before the demon lifts the magic holding Robin.

"oohmp," Robin grunts, his weight moving with the momentum he'd begun before being frozen, but his mind not ready for the motion, he falls to the ground, his palms biting into the snow.

* * *

**authors note, alright as you may or may not have noticed, shortish chapter here. the next one is a Marian one and it is HELLA long. so get your reading pants on, because they gonna be some exposition up in here next chapter, and rising action, and then, maybe even the climax, yeah, let's get this done.**

* * *

**Disclaimer: never mine**


	8. Chapter 8

Marian's laughter leaves her gasping, "You didn't!" she gasps out, hand flung out towards John, who simply shakes his head, as if her laughter is not even happening.

"I did," he tells her forlornly, "Truly, I did."

"But surely you knew the pig was not-"

"How was I to know anything at all?" John sighs, hands before him, an almost pleading stance, "they said the barmaid ran afoul a bitter and evil witch-"

Dunstan cackles, _cackles_, "And how many tankards had you drunk, Little John?"

John glares at the shorter man, glare intensifying when Dunstan claps John on the shoulder, "The both of you mock me," John says, switching his glare to Marian.

Marian tries to stifle her giggles, but she cannot get the image of John serenading a pig out of her mind's eye, cannot help but snort when she imagines John pressing his lips to a pig's snout in an attempt to break a witch's curse.

"I need not take this insult from either of you," John declares before turning and striding away, Marian would follow and apologize for her rudeness, but she saw the grin tipping Little John's lips up at the corners right before he turned. She knows he feels no true affront, and so she giggles just a little bit longer, Dunstan's laughter only fuels her own.

Caline looks at them both like they are mad when she comes to Marian's side, tapping gently at Marian's elbow to gain her attention, "Marian?" Caline asks, shaking her head at them both, "My darling, will you help me with the swo-"

Marian's laughter still chuckles out of her as she listens to Caline, her lungs are still jumping as she nods her acquiescence, and mirth is still dancing in her eyes when she sees Robin running through camp, the look on his face pure and complete panic. Marian has never seen him like this, not even in the most frustrating of situations; the most perilous of heists do not make his face twist in such a manner.

He plows into the tent he and Marian share, Marian steps only one step towards the tent before he is back out again, throwing his quiver over his shoulder, slinging it across his back, "Robin," Marian calls, frowning, her laughter well and truly gone, "what is it? What's wrong?" she's walking towards him, Caline following a step behind

"I have to go," he says, gazing at Marian, but he does not see her, his eyes are elsewhere, it only makes Marian's frown grow, "I have to go," he says.

She snares his elbow, a soft touch, "Robin, wait."

He pats her hand once, "I'm fine," before gently prying her concerned grasp from his sleeve, "I have to go, the Queen is hurt."

Concern makes way for ire, just a tiny bit, jealousy stirring in the deep recess of Marian's heart; she tries to violently push such petty thoughts away. She trusts Robin. The Queen is a good and honorable woman. "The Queen?" Marian echoes him, hurt he had said, but how could he know that, "Robin, how could you know tha-"

He looks away, out into the forest, off to the south, "I'll be back," he says, then he is gone, as graceful as any predator natural to these woods, gone through the trees, snow flying at his heels, his bow held in his right hand, his cloak billowing after him.

"Robin!" Marian calls after him, just once, but he does not turn back, not even to look at her, Marian watches him go, her hand half raised, as if she could still reach out and touch him if she chose to do so. Marian is fumbling, her mouth opening, then promptly closing, jealousy, unneeded and unheeded, churning in her gut, concern too, for the Queen Robin says is hurt.

"Come," Caline urges, arm wrapped around Marian's middle, steering her back towards the fire, back to the chore that needs doing. Caline looks over her shoulder once, off to where Robin had ran, her brow furrowed, before she shakes her head and wiggles Marian in her hold, bundling her up.

Not minutes later William runs into camp, skidding in the muck, panting before John. John lays a hand on William's shoulder, until Will gets the words out, "Kings men!" he gasps out, his bow held in a white knuckled grasp.

Caline is next to Marian when the knights come down the winding path not ten minutes later. The knights on their steeds, the path is not meant for mounts, it is with some trouble that the Kings men make their way, vibrant in their colors, the colors of King George upon their breasts, Marian eyes the verdant green and clashing orange of King George's house, swallowing nervously, jumping when Caline rests a hand high on Marian's spine. The camp looks like any other wandering village, nothing marks them as outlaws, they act as any other loyal group of people would when confronted with Kings men, though the tension is thick in the air. The Merry Men's most favorite tactic is to merely melt away, to disappear and leave authorities with only questions, but there was no running away here, the Knights approaching on the only path the children and the old could possibly manage.

"Don't look defiant," Caline whispers into Marian's ear, "but do not cower," Marian swallows, trying to slow the breaths that want to rush in and out, her heart is pounding, a pot of boiling water still in her grasp, her chore not even started, she needs both hands to hold the heavy pot and heavy water.

She thinks of Robin as John raises a hand, greeting the Knight that swings from his horse, his heavy plating clunking and clinking, a smile on the knights face as he lifts his helm from his head. Marian thinks of the Queen, whose ransom has risen and risen as autumn fell to winter. They are elsewhere, the two with the most recognizable faces, the two with the highest bounty, without their recognizable faces this is only a camp of peasants, worth no trouble to the King or his men, Marian prays it is so.

"Greetings," the Knight says, he is a handsome man, tall and broad, his smile easy, but he does not offer John a hand to shake, arrogance lives in that smile. He is a Lordling, perhaps even of the Royal house, Marian can tell, an heir, you can always tell the inheritors from the rest. The other three knights stay seated on their mounts, one lifts his visor, the others do not.

"Greetings to you, My Lord," John bows his head, the very model of a loyal peasant.

"It's Your Majesty," a still helmed Knight says, his voice echoing strangely through the metal that hides his face, he is the flag bearer, "you speak to Prince James, heir to the throne of King George."

The handsome man, his smile grows, and it might have looked bashful, if he wasn't seeping, absolutely oozing, arrogance, it is heavy even in his walk as he approaches John, a swagger to his steps.

John is a fine actor, Marian thinks, she's shaking, trembling from nerves, as she watches John bow his head lower, "A thousand pardons, Your Majesty," John cries, he is a fine, fine actor.

Sherwood is squarely in King Leopold's realm, Marian's father had taught her himself all about maps, and she remembers even now, such a fond memory, sitting on her father's lap in the library, the dark paneled room with huge gusty windows to catch the midday light, sitting and listening to her father tell her of all the kingdoms, the East and the North, the forest and the sea, of which Royal House belonged where, what is the Prince doing so far afield? Marian ducks her head down for a moment, when the Knight with the lifted visor finally relents and takes the whole helm off, Marian's hands are slick with the steam that wafts up from the pot still in her grasp.

"We do not mean to intrude upon you," Prince James says, arm flung out as if to include the entire camp in the conversation, the camp has gone still, paused and looking at the scene, surely the Prince can read the tension in the air, Marian is shaking for she feels it keenly, "we seek only guidance and a chance to water our mounts," he turns to grin at John, "we lost the main path an hour ago at least."

"Aye, Your Majesty," John keeps his head tilted, his eyes averted, grabbing quick little darting looks at the Prince, as if he is truly a peasant overawed. He is a fine actor. "This wood tricks the unwary, swallows them whole the old wives say," it is not the wood that swallows the unwary, Marian knows, but they cannot do away with a Prince, he will be missed, more then missed, he will be sought after.

Prince James chuckles; he looks more a boy when he does that, perhaps eighteen, nineteen, but no older, he's merely a boy. The Prince's eyes scan the camp once more, nodding, his eyes do not really see anything, just grazing the surface, it is below him, after all, the peasants and their camp, he absorbs none of it. "Please!" the Prince calls out, his voice pitched perfectly for every ear to hear, "go about your chores and duties."

Caline's hand is immediately at Marian's elbow, turning her away, the steaming bucket of water sloshing in Marian's hold, water soaking the hem of Marian's dress, hot, hot water, water still boiling, she nearly burns her legs.

"Hold!" a Knight calls, the only other to have his face free to observation, he swings from his horse, "You there, the dark haired one!"

Caline lets out a nervous breath, wide blue eyes spinning to Marian before she nods, a subtle thing, and the both of them turn around to face the Knight. The Knight is taller than the Prince, a few years older; his hand is resting upon the pommel of his sword as he studies Marian's face, the Prince looks between Marian and his companion.

"What is your name?" the Knight asks, a deep voice, authoritative, a bark he expects submission in response to, he is looking at Marian with his eyes narrowed.

Marian's mouth opens, yet no sound spills forth, her own father had put a poster up for her, she had only ever seen one, a reward so paltry offered that she thought perhaps her father did not want her back at all. Or perhaps this Knight recognizes her from a summer spent at Marian's father's estate, by the coast, upon a sloping hill; his manor was the envy of even the most influential Lord's and Lady's, Marian remembers an avalanche of people coming for a time each summer, never staying long, and certainly not associating with the youngest child of the poor Lord whose house they made their own.

John steps before her, his broad back an arm's length from her, he has his hands raised, tension knotting up his shoulders, some of his fine acting has slipped from him, "She is my wife," he says to answer the Knight, "her name is Mary."

Prince James lands a hand upon his friends arm, "Aaron," he calls, one eyebrow lifted, still with that easy grin on his lips.

The Knight turns to face the Prince, "I know her face, I know not from where, but she is no peasant, of that I am certain."

John steps forward, his eyes pointing up into the trees for a moment, just a moment, and Marian need not look to know archers are in the branches, the most agile of the Merry Men, they hide and wait with arrows notched up in the trees. "Please, Your Majesty," he looks to Prince James, "she is only my wife, she comes from Eastillton in the south."

The Prince tugs at his friends arm, a chuckle already forming in his throat, "She's his wife, Aaron, leave it be."

"My Prince," the Knight says, dark eyes once more pointed to Marian, he pulls free of the Prince's grasp, each step loud and clinking, his armor the only sound beside the crackling fire in the camp, "I know her fa-"

A whisper of air blows past Marian's ear, moves her hair it is so close to her.

_Thunk_.

Is the sound the arrow makes as it sinks into the flank of the flag bearers horse.

"NO!" John bellows, just as the horse begins to shriek, giant eyes widened, whinnying in fright and in pain, John spins around, Marian does too, looking for the fool that loosed his arrow. But Marian can see no one in the trees, she sees no one but she knows they are there. The Prince has drawn his sword, Aaron the Knight as well, the flag bearer scrambling from his horses back, trying to ease the animal with a desperate grip upon the reins.

John is screaming apologies, the horse still shrieks, there is no turning back from this, Marian thinks, as those that are not fighters start to run away from the armed men, little Ann tripping over her skirts before her sister grabs her hand and drags her away. Those that are not fighters melt away through the tents and trees, but more stay, able bodied woman and Merry Men that were not suited to climb into the trees with their bows, weapons appearing as if by magic in their hands.

The Knight, the Knight that had known Marian's face, and why couldn't he have _not_, he and his Lordlings could have passed on their way, the Knight swipes his sword at John. John jumps back, screaming out 'NO' once more, a warning to the archers to stay their arrows even now. John still thinks there is a way back from this. John jumps away from the blade, no longer standing before Marian and Caline, the Knight reaches out his covered hand, reaching for Marian, his face twisted meanly, his brow heavy.

Everything is loud, the shrieking of the horse, John's bellows, the Prince's calls, all of it with the clink clink clunk of the armor, the noise runs through Marian's ears as she sees his hand get closer and closer. What does he intend to do with a grip on her, she has seconds to ponder, would he drag her from this place?

Marian is panting, when her breath became so heavy she has no idea, but it's with a snarl of her own that she heaves the bucket up in her grasp, the scalding water flies through the air, splashing upon the Knight's face, a horrible hissing seems to be the only noise in Marian's ear, bubbling welts rise angrily on his skin as he screeches, eyes wide, one hand leaving his blade, is clawed up near his face in agony, screaming and screaming as Marian drops the now empty bucket, her mouth open in shock. "Run!" Caline screams, grabbing at Marian's hand and tugging her, Marian takes one stumbling step backwards, arms flailing wildly as Caline pushes her off, it is that push that starts her, Marian turns and dashes past tent after tent, she can hear the Knight still screaming.

"Fucking bitch!" he howls.

The children of the Merry Men, the families, the elderly, they have already melted away, she does not know what hiding place they are secreted in, but Marian cannot stop to think, the sounds still running through her, but she hears him screaming. Screaming and following her as she runs.

His companions scream as well, the clash of steel upon steel rings through the forest now, a fight begun truly, another group of the unwary swallowed by the forest of Sherwood, she flinches at each ringing echo, until the woods swallow her, trees where tents had been, she runs and runs, deeper into the trees, reckless and without direction in her fright. The wounded knight still follows her, still cursing her, his armor clinking with every hurried step he takes. An archer, Marian prays frantically, nearly tripping on a snow covered root, an archer in the trees will fell him, she hopes, but knows she has already run too far from their position.

Marian is near hyperventilating, widened eyes frantically looking for an escape, her panic aids her flight, as she runs she looks for a weapon, any weapon, but there is nothing, nothing but snow and tall trees. She is good with a bow, a natural marksmen, she should have grabbed a bow, she should not have left camp, each thing she has done plays over and over in her mind, and she wishes she could change it, she has no weapon and the Knight has nearly a head on her, a tall man, broad, strong.

He is still screaming at her, lumbering after her, a steady gait even though he is wounded, Marian turns her head to look at him, her hair whipping before her eyes, it is then that she trips. She is flung to the snow, it's biting into her palms, she has lost precious ground as she scrambles to her feet and runs anew, each breath sharp and aching in her lungs.

"Marian!"

Robin's voice, Marian very nearly drops to the ground in relief as she lifts her head and looks for him, her knees weak, she can see him through the bare branches.

Does he see the armed man? Marian has no breath to warn him, she can see the moment Robin sees the Knight, his brows turn angry, he takes the dagger from his waist, runs towards her, when Robin reaches her side the Knight is only steps behind her.

It is a blur, as if Marian blinked and the world shifted. There is blood on the Knight's blade, Marian has her back to a tree, the bark digging into her shoulders, she's dizzy, air drawn in through her mouth in harsh pants, a wound on Robin's side, he had tugged her out of the way of swipe, taken it for himself instead after his dagger was flung aside as if it were nothing. The Knight's face is still bubbling, it is ugly, he is ugly as he snarls and lunges another blow that Robin jumps wildly to avoid, Robin barks out in pain as he lands on the ground, the wound on his side bleeding heavily, he is already pale.

Matteo erupts as if from thin air, appearing from nothing, like a shadow, he is silent, silent and deadly with twin blades in each hand, fading into being behind the Knight's back, but the Knight is young, strong, and talented, his head twitches towards Matteo's position, his blade flowing through the air second slater. That one swipe, unexpected and heavy, it fells Matteo, he's choking on a wet gasp, and then he is down, on his back on the ground.

"NOO," Marian screams, makes as if to run to his side, only to flinch back as the bloodied blade points to her. She stoops and retrieves Robin's dagger from the ground, the leather of the hilt is wet, and cold, she grips it in her fist, stands with her back to the bark and snarls at the Knight that steps towards her.

Matteo erupted from nothing, but the Queen erupts from smoke, billowing, thick, purple smoke, quick and heavy right behind the Knight's back as he takes a menacing step towards Marian.

He goes to turn, eyes widened at the smoke, but then his whole body goes ramrod straight, his sword arm dropping, his mouth opening in a soundless cry. His fingers limp, his sword clattering free of his grasp. The Queen is so short behind him that Marian cannot see her at first, cannot see her at all as she stands behind the Knight.

It is not till Robin gasps out a surprised, "Regina!" that Marian processes that the other woman is there at all. She came in the smoke. Magic. Marian blinks, magic. There is an awful sqwelching noise, the Knight stumbles, turns and nearly falls to his knees, using his sword as a crutch to stay standing on legs that are as weak.

Marian blinks again, her own mouth opening, but no sound escaping.

In the Queen's hand is a pulsing thing, glowing a faint red, light shining through her tensed fingers. In one of Tuck's books there was an illustration of a heart, anatomically correct, Marian's mouth opens wider, horror has her gasping, shock has her jaw loose, a hand coming to cover her mouth, the other hand tightening on Robin's dagger, Marian tries to cover her gasps, in the Queen's grasp is the Knight's heart. The Queen has _torn out_ his heart, and yet he lives, no blood upon him, no mark on his back when he turns it to Marian, his armor not even scuffed.

The Knight turns to the Queen fully, head tilted, mouth still open, looking like a dimwitted animal at the heart in the small woman's hand, like he can't understand what has just happened to him. He falls to his knees when the Queen's grip on his heart, held in her small hand, glowing red, pumping lazily as if it still moves hot blood through its valves, the Queen squeezes, her mouth twisting in a snarl. The darkness in her eyes sparks, it looks like madness, like desperation, Marian shudders back from the Queen and her mad eyes, her mad eyes and her face painted with blood, she is covered in blood, the Queen's lovely face transformed into the most intimidating of war masks, Marian tries to sink further into the tree, but the bark is solid and offers no hide away.

"Regina!" Robin hisses, the effort it costs him to regain his feet has him paling alarmingly, he is unsteady, one hand still clutching against the wound on his side, he takes a staggering step towards the Queen, frantically grabbing at the Queen's arm, to pull her back from the brink, Marian thinks, and thinks it foolhardy, but the Queen _does_ turn her face to him, her snarl softening, her overly bright eyes calming, her grip on the heart does not loosen though.

"Regina," Robin repeats, a pleading tone wrapping around the name, and when did he start calling her by her name, Marian's mouth is still open, her hand still covering the lower half of her face, she cannot tear her gaze away from the lazily pumping heart now straining in the Queen's grip. "You need not do this," Robin pleads, he says over the screaming of the Knight, the Knight gasps and screams, writhing on the snow, hand clawing at his chest plate, the burns stark on his handsome face, in his eyes is the knowledge that he is going to die.

"He would have killed you and Marian," the Queen says quietly, she is shaking, panting, swaying too, Marian finally looks away from the heart, up to the Queen's face, the face painted with blood and she sees it comes from a wound upon the side of the Queen's head, a pulpy wound that looks enough to have killed her, but she stands alive, fighting. "He killed Matteo!" Regina says, voice loud all of a sudden, yelling, her words have Robin's touch leaving her arm, flinching back.

Marian can see Matteo's breaths moving his chest up and down, labored breathing, but he is alive, but what Marian sees and what the Queen sees must be much, much different.

"He is alive," Marian says, swallowing and moving her hand away from her mouth, she nearly flinches too, when the Queen's heated gaze spins to look at her, "Matteo lives, look!" Marian pleads with her, pointing with the tip of the dagger towards Matteo. The Queen is shorter then Marian, but there is something about her now, something she must have been shrouding for months, something about her has the air crinkle, she is powerful, for reasons beside the crown she once wore upon her brow. Dark and powerful, she is frightening.

"Look," Marian says again, stepping away from the tree.

The Queen shudders harder, hand convulsingly tensing in time with a tick in her jaw bouncing, she's blinking rapidly, she's going to pass out, she stumbles, the hold on the heart relenting, only slightly. The Knight howls though, as if that is a worse pain then what came before.

"AARON!" a call comes from somewhere, echoing through the woods.

The Prince.

The Prince, with his sword drawn and held battle ready before him as he springs through the trees, fast approaching, his mouth held rigid in a hard downturned line, he has a gash to his face, an arrow sticking from the joint in his armor between his chest plate and his arm.

Robin grunts, watching the Prince approach, the Queen stumbles once more, nearly falls, she shoots out her arm and grabs at a sapling, her panting breath reverberates in Marian's ears.

Some strange expression fleets over Prince James's features as he sees the Queen, and the thing in her hand, "Witch," the Prince hisses, his blade swinging up to ready a felling blow, nearer and nearer.

Robin moves to stand in front of the Queen, in front of Marian, the Queen's head moves about in a sharp gesture, wide eyes and panic in her face, she draws the heart towards her mouth, grip relaxing to the point where she might be gently but firmly holding a small animal, the Knight's howls immediately ceasing, "Kill him," she orders, and the Knight lurches to his feet, so quickly that Marian gasps in surprise.

The Knight passes Robin, who gapes at his passing, the Knight picks his sword from the ground as he goes, all in jerky motions, horror showing on his young face, his burnt face. And then he is attacking.

"Aaron, stop this!" the Prince pleads, beating back each furious blow his friend launches at him. The shinking of their swords, of the metal against metal is quick, the Prince yelling over and over, desperately, at his friend to stop, to have enough strength to pry himself loose of the witch's hold, but the Knight does not have the power, Marian knows, as Regina holds his heart and says again, "Kill him," an urgent whisper. The Knight's body tenses a moment, as if the order had struck him as well as any arrow, his attacks upon his future sovereign become more savage.

Robin's face is scrunched, a wince pressing up his nose, hunched as the wound on his side still bleeds through his fingers, and he turns slightly, keeping the dueling men in half his sight, the rest for the Queen, "Do not do this!"

Marian tries to grab the heart then, the hand that does not hold the dagger trying to snatch the glowing organ, grappling at the Queen that is unprepared for any advance from Marian, "Stop this," Marian cries.

The Queen snarls, moves her arms up and away, pushing at Marian, "I will not go back!" she shrills, her voice shaking, she looks about ready to faint, pale under the red, red blood that decorates her, (Robin calls for Marian to stop, for the Queen to stop, JUST STOP) the Queen yelps, a sound filled with pain, when both women trip down upon the sloshy ground because the Queen once more stumbles, her grip on the sapling holding her up slipping free. Marian's weight lands upon the Queen's form, and another ringing cry is heard from the Queen, the heart rolling until it splashes into a puddle, laying there, softly thumping.

"No, no, no," Marian whispers, scuttling her weight off the Queen, the Queen stays down on her back, her legs kicking against the snow, her eyes slammed shut, whimpers leaving her mouth, her hands up and clutching at the ribs on her right side, from between the ribs there is the dagger, Robin's dagger, barely in, but stabbed all the same, "no, no," Marian says frantically, on her knees beside the Queen, Marian goes to pull the knife free. Robin's hand snatches at Marian's, stilling her.

"Leave it," he barks, bunching up a handful of the Queen's cloak and pressing it against her newest wound.

"I did not mean it!" Marian defends herself, though he has not even looked at her with accusation, "it was an accident," she whispers, and it had been, god, oh god, her stomach is churning, she's never stabbed a person before, only arrows, releasing an arrow is quick, quick and done and the damage is far away, but the knife, she had felt it go in, oh god, oh god, it had scraped against bone, Marian had felt the vibration in her hand, no, no, oh go-

They are distracted, both of them, Robin and Marian, both leaning over the Queen, when Prince James leaps for the heart, sliding upon the ground and into the puddle, his sword left behind in his dive, he grabs the heart and shouts at the top of his lungs as he rolls to his feet, "No more," he orders his friend, lips so close to the heart, "yield!"

It is not who _holds_ the heart that has the power, Marian realizes at the same time as the Prince, Marian looks away as the Knight runs forth, his sword held parallel to the ground, running fully towards the Prince, it is who _took_ the heart that has the power. The Knight runs the Prince right through, the blade angled up to slide under the chest plate, the force of the thrust moving the blade through the chainmail that would have been underneath.

The Prince gurgles, his last sound, his arms go limp on either side, Marian sees the light leave his eyes, she looks back in time to see that. The Knight howls, jerking back his blade, the Prince falling heavily down to his knees, then to his back, dead, he is dead, the heart he'd fought so hard for rolling from his fingers.

The Knight falls to his knees, expression empty, he does not reach for his heart, he does nothing, and the answer as to why comes when Marian hears the Queen, her voice barely there at all, "Don't move," the Queen orders, "don't speak, don't run away," she's saying, her chest constricting, jumping under the hands Robin has against the wound on her side.

Marian's eyes though find Robin's wound, a gruesome thing, sliced skin, on his left side, he's bleeding and bleeding, pale, he makes a horrible choking sound before he slumps forward over the Queen, passing out. Marian lunges for him, tugging him to the side, tugging him so his weight does not fall atop the dagger that still sticks out of the Queen, she tries to rouse him desperately, swatting at his cheeks, but he is out cold, Matteo too.

The Queen's eyes flicker, her lips still forming words that Marian now cannot hear.

Marian feels as if everything is in slow motion, surrounded by three bleeding figures on their backs, and one man with a heart taken from him, Marian looks and looks and doesn't feel how hard she is shaking.

She sobs out in relief when John calls for her, his booming voice loud, frightened, desperately calling to her, "Marian! Marian, by the gods, answer me!"

"HERE!" she screams, her throat nearly tearing as she screams again and again, not rising from spot beside Robin, beside Regina, Matteo steps away, "I'm HERE!"

* * *

"Why does he not fight?" John asked, and Marian pointed to the red beating heart upon the ground.

John's eyebrows nearly flew from his forehead, a strangled gasp escaping him, "Gods," he said, reaching down to touch it, to lift it, in the Queen's hands it had looked large, in John's it does not, he cradles it, looking from it to the Knight, the last living of the group that had taken a wrong path, a terrible blunder costing them their lives.

"The Queen did this?" he asks.

Marian nods, she does not know if it is meant to be a secret, she would not know how to keep it such even if it were, she nods to John.

John swallows, walks forward and nudges the Knight with the toes of his boots.

Marian hears the Queen, a breathy voice, and when Marian looks at her she finds the Queen's dark eyes open, shining brightly, open, and staring at John's boot, "Help them," she says, she orders, and the Knight lurches in response.

John springs back, drawing his blade, but Marian stills him with desperate hands.

When she turns back to the Queen, the Queen is limp in the snow, succumb to unconsciousness, Marian hesitates, before smoothing the Queen's matted hair from all over her face.

* * *

The hide away were caves. The families of the Merry Men knew the way, Marian had not, not even a mile away, caves peppering a cliff wall, a network of them, they were built. Marian does not know by whom, can tell they are ancient and when she asks John about them he shrugs, as much as he can with Robin slung over his back.

Robin comes to her as soon as he's awake.

He sits beside her, wincing, a hand held to his bandage before he relaxes, turning his head to look at her, Marian does not let a word escape his open mouth, "She will heal," Marian says, speaking of the Queen that lies half naked further in the cave, deep into the catacombs, the Friar doing his healers work with her, muttering prayers under his breath, she and Matteo lay side by side, both unconscious, the Friar had not said they may die, but it was written all over his face, the Friar hovering over them both and worrying, but Marian will not tell Robin the Queen may die, because she does not honestly think the Queen will.

A sigh slips free of his lips, some tension leaving his shoulders, and it's as if another tight ring squeezes at Marian's throat. She feels a vindictive woman, taking such offence at his relief that the Queen is well.

"What is between you?" Marian asks, her next words, something that should have been said so much sooner, would it have hurt less if she had asked sooner? Marian twists the cloth in her hands, a wet and bloodied cloth the Friar had given her to clean the stinging cuts on her palms, courtesy of her fall during her chase, it beads moisture onto her fingers, cloying cool moisture, a stark contrast to the impossibly hot tears that leak from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks, and when she tips her head down they drip off the tip of her nose. They are tears without heaving breath, they are tears that have been building since the first moment Marian saw Robin looking at the Queen, looking and looking.

Robin reaches for her hands, she does not let her hold them, snatches her hands away, will not take his comfort, "Answer me," she demands, voice strong, even with the harsh sniff to hold in wet snot that follows the words, her words are steel.

"I have not betrayed you," Robin declares, like a desperate man holding to his last coin, "I swear it, Marian, nothing untoward-"

Marian throws the cloth down upon the cave floor, her voice sharp, it rings, Dunstan turns his head to look at them as she harshly whispers, "What lies between you?!" she demands, her eyes red, her voice shaking now, and when he tries once more to comfort her, trying to land a hand on her knee, she pushes him violently. He hisses out a sharp breath, a hand held up to his bandaged wound, Marian is too irate to feel sorry, "You think I do not see you staring? You think I am blind and dumb, not to see the way you watch her?!" Marian shakes her head, threads her hands through her hair, looking at her husband, the husband she knows loves her, but he looks at the Queen and there is something there, something to the pair of them that sets the very air ringing, an almost smell in the air when they stand together, Marian has ignored it, has pretended it was not there, because Robin is a good man, the Queen a good woman, but there is something between them, there is no more denying it.

Robin hangs his head, his whole face scrunching, as if he is in pain, more pain then his wound would give him, he does not insult Marian again by evading her questioning, he answers with hesitant words, faltering, when elsewhere, everywhere else, he is so sure, "Marian, I do not know," his eyes close, Marian huffs out an unhappy breath.

"You do not know?" she repeats him, tone fast growing nasty, she is angry, and hurt, so, so hurt, "You do not know why your eyes follow a beautiful woman like a dog's would follow game on a hunt?"

Robin looks up quickly, heat burning in his bright blue eyes, the light of the fire at the lip of the cave sparks in his eyes, "You know that is not the way of it," he says.

Marian has to turn her eyes away, because she _does_ know that is not the truth of it, Robin looks and looks at the Queen and sees more than the pretty face, and it burns Marian even worse than simple lust could have, that he looks and looks at something deeper than the pretty face. She cannot blame the Queen, she will not take that step, but her lip curls in an expression reminiscent of disgust as she imagines the Queen the flame, and Robin the moth, something that is not only her beauty pulling Robin in and in, away from Marian.

"What is the way of it, Robin?" Marian is suddenly tired, weary of speaking to him, weary of stress that has plagued her, weary of putting on smiles, of trying to be happy with a husband that looks at another woman the way he is meant to look at Marian. She is simply tired, from a day of trekking through snow, tired of a day filled with fighting for her life.

"You are my wife, I love you, Marian," Robin says, that pain filled grimace still decorating his face, he grasps her hand and she lets him hold her, touch her, his skin is warm against hers, his hand large and strong.

She licks her lips, shaking her head, leans in towards him to whisper her next query, the most heart wrenching thing she has to ask, a simple question really, "Do you love _her_?"

Robin flinches, lips pressed tightly, his eyes closing, gripping her hand hard enough to hurt before easing, "I know her hardly at all," he says, not an answer, evading her, her questions, and perhaps there was a time she would have taken this offering from him, the option to carry on while leaving things unsaid, but it would only be pretend.

Marian pulls her hand free, she loves him so much, her husband, her wonderful Robin, sweet, strong Robin, tears spring anew from her eyes, "Do you _love_ her?" she asks again, the question ragged at the edges, her breath beginning to stutter, an ache deep behind her sternum thrumming with each lung full of air.

"Yes," he answers, a whispered answer, as if he says it quietly enough it won't hurt her as deeply as it does.

A whimper leaves her mouth, and when she stands and walks from him, walks deep into the darkness, down a tunnel with light playing at the far, far end, sobbing and trying to stop, Robin tries to follow her, calling her name.

"Don't," she hiccups.

* * *

**authors note, yoooooo how you doing, you enjoying the story?**

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: not mine yo**


End file.
